


Tutor Me

by negativelyme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ... but not really, ...not by a main character though, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom Derek Hale, Inappropriate Behavior, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining, Praise Kink, Rich Derek Hale, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Worker Derek Hale, Tutoring, Writer Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/negativelyme/pseuds/negativelyme
Summary: Stiles doesn’t realize that Derek is adifferentkind of tutor.___________Or the one where Derek is a Sex Therapist, and Stiles just needs help with his dissertation.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 336





	1. Meaningless Coffee and Meaningful Skype Calls

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I'm posting, and honestly, I'm really excited to see where it goes. I've read fic in this 'verse for a while, and I figured I give it a shot.
> 
> ... I may also have some other TW fic stored away on my computer that I just haven't posted.
> 
> -
> 
> Yes, this fic is rated Explicit for sexual content and upcoming smut.
> 
> I'm planning on a weekly posting schedule, probably on Sundays.
> 
> More tags will be added as the story comes along.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek meet up for coffee. Seriously.

This was a terrible idea. Seriously. The worst possible idea Stiles has ever had. He should turn and run out the door. His body is subconsciously leaning toward it anyway. It wasn’t like he had just ordered a hot coffee or anything. Or had another one set right across from him, devoid of its owner and waiting to be drank. Nope. Wasn’t like he was waiting for anyone important. Damn, the door looks inviting. It’s only a few steps. Just a few steps.

A throat clears above him, and he snaps his eyes away from where he’s holding his own mug and up to the sound’s owner. He’s met with the most gorgeous looking man he has ever seen. Chiseled cheek bones, a jaw covered in trimmed stubble that could clearly cut glass, and eyebrows, that from the look of them, could probably elicit more emotions than a pair of lips. Stiles doesn’t even want to go in depth about the guy’s lips. But, damn.

Seriously, though, the things he was thinking about the guy’s lips. Pressed against his neck, trailing down his stomach to wrap around his…

The same throat clears again.

Stiles meets the guy’s eyes and swears he sees them twinkle. They are a deep, dark green that absolutely captivate him. The guy looks away and clears his throat once more.

“Excuse me? Are you Stiles?” Jesus _Christ_ , the guy’s voice is like _butter._ What Stiles would give to hear that voice say wonderfully dirty things to him. Okay, so he was constantly turned on. Seriously, who could blame him? He’s twenty-four and working on his dissertation which was literally taking him _months_. It was absolute torment, and he was at his wit’s end. It also meant months of half-assed sex and sad masturbation sessions that often ended with a tub of ice cream and reality tv re-runs.

So, yes, he’s having an X-rated daydream about this stranger’s face. Sue him. Or don’t. Because he’s so fucking broke right now. He bought this coffee with a coupon he found online. 

The throat clears _again._

Stiles fumbles and responds with a “Yes, that’s me,” but seeing as how the man looks at him with one eyebrow raised, he figures it comes out as “Unghn, shas fhe.”

The guy chuckles, and lord _that_ is an amazing sound. “May I sit?”

Realizing that he is too tongue-tied for a legitimate answer, he just nods dumbly and gestures to the seat across from him. The man sits down and folds his hands on the table. Stiles can’t drag his eyes away from the guy’s knuckles. Seriously, what God created this masterpiece? No. This guy _was_ a God.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” The guy quips before sliding his large fingers through the mug’s handle and bringing the cup to his lips. Stiles hopes the coffee is still hot. He had ordered it a while ago.

“I, uh,” Stiles blanks once again because, _seriously_ , the guy’s lips. “I do, actually. Sometimes my friends can’t get me to shut up because I go on and on and on. That’s why I do research, actually. Because I have so many fucking thoughts in my head. Shit, I shouldn’t have said fuck. Shit, I shouldn’t have said shit. Wait. Damnit.” Stiles puts his head in hands and groans softly. How could he fuck up this first meeting so badly?

A little smile graces the man’s face, and he sets the mug back on the table. “It’s fine. I don’t mind if you curse. Within reason, of course.” The words send a tiny shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I just get nervous, meeting new people,” Stiles sips his latte and licks his lip. He notices that the guy follows the movement and stares as if the world’s secrets are in Stiles’ lips. Maybe they are?

“Occasionally, I find myself in the same predicament. I get it,” the guy pauses and examines his coffee. “You got my order exactly right, down to the exact amount of sugar. I’m impressed.” He takes another sip.

“Yeah, well, it’s the least I could do for all that you’re going to be doing for me. Big help, here,” he goes pink in the cheeks and gestures to the folder in front of him. At this point, he is at a loss for words. Asking someone for help with _this?_ It was kind of embarrassing, but he didn’t really have a choice anymore.

Derek nods once before leaning forward over the table, right into Stiles’ personal space. “Pleasure’s all mine. I can tell this is going to be a perfect arrangement.” His eyes trail down Stiles’ throat and land on the space of skin that his v-neck allows. Stiles reacts by shifting back and flushing even pinker.

“Yeah, I definitely agree. Uhm, I didn’t get your name?” A man this gorgeous had to have an interesting name, too. It was basically a law. Their email correspondence hadn’t alluded to anything but a meeting time and place, after all.

Handsome and mysterious raises his eyebrows before smirking, “Derek, Derek Hale.”

Stiles can’t help himself, “Oh, so informal.” His eyebrows crease before he begins chewing on the inside of his lip. “Stiles, Stiles Stilinski. But you knew that.”

“I mean, you can call me Mr. Hale, if you prefer. It’s up to you. Either will be fine, I suppose,” he finishes before taking another gulp of his coffee. “Stiles is an interesting name. Surely you don’t need an alias for this?”

A soft chuckle rings out. “It’s my real name. Well, a nickname. No one can pronounce my full name. Not unless you know Polish. And even then, my dad has trouble pronouncing it. So, Stiles it is. I like it. Short, sweet, to the point.”

“Sweet is right.” There goes the smirk and slight growl again. What was this guy trying to do to him? Little Stiles was going to make an appearance, and it was _not okay._ They were in public for god’s sakes.

“Yeah, well, uhm. I was wondering where you wanted to meet? Yanno, for the first session? I figure my apartment is fine, but you probably have tools or things I don’t have but might need,” he trails off and looks back down at the portfolio underneath his palms.

Derek gaze goes serious, and he nods. Stiles even notices that his relaxed posture goes stiff as he folds his arms across his body. His shoulders are no longer hunched in on himself, and his chin is tilted up. His entire body reeks of confidence. It was doing things for Stiles.

“Sounds good to me. I was thinking Saturday, 6pm? I could make us food, and then we can discuss what the best plan is going forward?” All Stiles can do is nod dumbly because Derek decides at this exact moment to flex his upper arm while attempting to grab his phone from his pocket. He taps out a few things before sliding it over. “Put your number in. I only have your email.”

Stiles takes the phone and types it out. He makes sure to add an incredibly ridiculous yet accurate emoji to his contact name before taking a not-so-flattering picture from a terrible angle. He thinks it’s perfect. He slides it back. He figures it worked well enough because Derek cocks his eyebrow and looks at him with slight confusion.

“6 works for me. Thank you for doing this,” Stiles smiles at the man and swears he sees _him_ flush a little. “It means a lot to me.”

“Of course, Stiles. This is going to be mutually beneficial; I assure you.” Derek does one of his signature-dazzling smiles before standing up and leaving.

Stiles thinks his response is weird, but soon forgets about it as he watches Derek’s ass as it walks away from him. You could bounce a goddamn quarter off of it. Seriously, who _was_ this guy?

_________________

Another day spent agonizing over his paper has Stile’s stomach in knots. He really wasn’t in the mood for the Skype call he had to make, but he had promised Scott a dozen times that today would be the day they finally talked. Granted, it hadn’t been very long since the last time he called his friend, but he knew in the short month that things had probably changed for the better.

From all the pictures Scott had been posting, Stiles knew that he had big news to tell him. All the captions were extremely vague, but knowing his best friend, he was sure that there was something more meaningful behind them. Most were of Allison, and they had been for the past few years, but something was different. They were taken from a third point of view, like they had hired a professional photographer. He had a gut feeling that there was going to be a certain ceremony that took place in the next few months. He was ecstatic.

Settling down with a bowl of ramen and large bag of Ruffles has him ready for this monumental Skype chat. He was prepared.

The notorious call tone makes itself known on his laptop, and he doesn’t even have to check the Caller ID before pressing accept. A fluffy-haired, smiley Scott makes his appearance.

“Stiles! My man,” the man writhes on camera, and it’s clear he’s jumping up and down.

“Scotty boy! How’s my dude?” Scott is the only man in Stiles’ life that wasn’t inherently mad whenever Stiles called him ‘dude.’ He knows this is special. Literally, _every other person_ tells Stiles to fuck off whenever that word leaves his mouth. Not Scotty. Scotty has been allowing that infamous word to leave Stiles’ mouth ever since they were three. Yes, they’ve known each other for twenty-one years, and yes, they wouldn’t let anyone forget that. Best friends through and through.

“I’m fucking incredible. I have _so much_ to tell you. Wanna say hi to Allie? She’s in the other room. Hold on,” Stiles goes to stop him but realizes it didn’t really matter. He figures the news has to do with her just as much as him. Scott screams for his girlfriend, and Stiles immediately hears the thump of her footsteps as she approaches the camera. She instantly slots herself into Scott’s lap and waves enthusiastically.

“Stiles! Hey! How are you?” She smiles and wraps her arms around Scott’s neck. A kiss is placed on his forehead before she leans back to look at the camera.

“I’m fantastic, but I’m sure you’d rather talk about something else?” Stiles trails off, takes a bite of his ramen, and watches the excitement on both their faces turn into something grander.

Allison hops up and down Scott’s lap before calling to someone off-camera.

“Well, as you know, Allie and I have been together for eight years. And, after much discussion, and a lot of trial-and-error,” he trails off as steps started to echo through Stiles’ speakers, “we realized that we wanna move forward in our relationship.” Stiles is trying to hold back his smile, but fuck if it isn’t hard.

“So, we’ve decided to…” someone appears behind Scott.

“Get married!” “Date Isaac!”

“Wait,” Stiles pauses and stares at who he now realizes is Isaac, “what?”

Isaac leans down so he is in full view of the camera and places his chin on Scott’s shoulder. Stiles is beyond fucking confused. It doesn’t matter though. One look at the three of them, and Stiles can tell that they were so fucking happy. The three look at each other like they are the only ones in the world. It’s breathtaking. Scott didn’t just find Allison, he found Isaac, too. Stiles isn’t going to cry.

“At first, Isaac was just our photographer for the center, but then Allie and I had a conversation, and we realized that we didn’t _just_ want him to be the photographer. It was a no brainer,” punctuated with a chaste kiss to Isaac’s lips.

Allison hits him on the shoulder, “Oh, okay, Mr. Doubting His Sexuality Before He Realized That He Wanted to Fuck Isaac Just as Much as He Wanted to Fuck Me.” Stiles has to cover his ears with the curse that follows. He never realized that Scott had such a mouth on him. He was innocent, puppy-eyed Scott. Oh who was he kidding?

“For what it’s worth, Scott likes getting fucked just as much—,” another punch, this time to Isaac’s shoulder.

“Okay! I don’t need to hear about my best friend’s bedroom habits, thank you very much. That’s enough for one night.” Stiles pauses and looks at the trio once more. Scott’s looking at him expectantly, like he’s searching for approval. Oh. _Oh._

Stiles smiles a big, toothy grin and points towards the screen. “I’m fucking happy for you, Scotty Boy. Isaac, I’m giving you the same warning I gave Allie all those years ago. If you hurt him, I will hurt you in so many ways. And those ways involve your balls and a knife.” Isaac winces.

“Got it. Don’t worry. No maiming needed. I think I’ll keep them intact, thank you.”

He hugs Scott around the back tightly and places a kiss on Allie’s head. The three really do look happy.

“Good, well, I’m glad that everyone can keep their anatomies where they are.”

Allie laughs into Scott’s neck before turning back towards the camera, “Now, Stiles, tell us all about the dicks _you’ve_ been around.”

Scott groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's my first chapter!
> 
> Look out next Sunday for the next one.
> 
> Leave kudos, a comment, or even a bookmark if you so choose. 
> 
> Thank you for reading~


	2. Dinner for Two, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek takes his job _very_ seriously.

So there Stiles is, holding a tray of brownies, standing outside the apartment Derek had texted him to be at. His blue jeep is parked out front. Honestly it’s a huge relief; his car had seen better days and hauling it back and forth from Beacon Hills to Los Angeles was taking a major toll. Sure, he doesn’t have the money to fix the engine, or the tires, or the oil, or even the stuck steering wheel… but his car isn’t doing _too_ terribly. He figures it can survive another year or so until he’s finished with graduate school and moved back home. That’s all the time he needs.

Looking up at the apartment building, he realizes how much more well-off Derek might be. Well, the neighborhood itself is a big indicator as is, but the freshly-painted walls and five-story building tell an even more compelling story. Hell, it has the word “luxury” on a plaque that welcomes its guests. There is no way that these apartments are any less than five figures a month. It makes Stiles’ dinky studio apartment look even more… well, dinky.

Honestly he’s okay with the fact that his apartment isn’t the biggest in all of LA. Hell, rent is expensive. His day-job as a for-hire computer consultant doesn’t really pay the bills as much as he hoped, but honestly he doesn’t have a choice at this point. He has a job contingent on the completion of his dissertation, and it’s a damn good job at that. He had already interviewed with the FBI HQ located in San Francisco. It helps that it’s a short hop and a skip away from his hometown. His dad needs him, after all. A grown man who can definitely take care of himself absolutely, unequivocally… needs his son.

Stiles rolls his eyes and slings his bag over his shoulder. It hits his side as he moves to lock the door behind him. His steps toward the courtyard of the apartment complex are quick; can anybody blame him? He’s nervous as fuck. This beautiful man is about to help him with something… embarrassing. Stiles hadn’t even told Scott where he was going, and he told his best friend _everything._ Either way, he’s here now, and there’s really no time for doubt anymore.

So he knocks on the door marked “3B.” Curse Derek for living on the third floor, but he’s impressed with the fact that not only was the front gate had been security-monitored, but each floor has its own corresponding code that needs to be punched in if a guest is to visit. It’s all very pizzazz-y. 

It’s in that moment that the doorknob starts turning from the inside that Stiles begins to doubt what he’s doing. Is he seriously about to ask this older man for something so simple? Granted, he’d paying him for it. Well, he’s going to attempt to pay for it for whatever he can negotiate. Once again, he doesn’t have much money at the moment. 

Stiles looks down at his outfit. He opted for his nicer black jeans, a simple gray button-down, and his black chucks. It isn’t too casual, right? Derek won’t think he’s dressing-down or brushing off the meeting, right? He really fucking hopes not. He’s banking on this meeting.

He fiddles with a thread at the hem of his shirt and begins frantically pulling at it because it won’t tear off. It’s at this precise moment that Derek decides to open the goddamn door. Stiles pauses, embarrassed and with his fingers wrapped around the now-long thread, and stares up at the… man in front of him. He has to stop his jaw from dropping.

Derek is in the doorway, dressed in dark blue jeans and a black Henley. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and one palm rests on the doorframe with the other lazily draped against the door. Legs crossed and demeanor playful, he’s a thing of Stiles’ dreams. One look at his face, and Stiles knows he’s about to hear something smart.

Safe to say a smirk appears on Derek’s face. “What did that shirt ever do to you?”

_And there it is._

Derek steps closer to him, his right foot now propped up against the door to keep it from closing. His hands come from their previous positions on the door and its frame and rest along the hem of Stiles’ shirt. One braces itself against Stiles lower stomach, and the other wraps the string around its fingers. If only that hand would dip a little lower. Stiles is at a loss for words. Derek’s face is so close to his; he practically feels his breath on his cheek. Derek is taller, so their mouths aren’t at the same level, but damn if they aren’t close.

Stiles looks up and finds Derek staring right back at him. The stare is… indescribable. Here Stiles is, in the middle of the hallway in a random apartment, pining over the gorgeous man that has his hands tangled in Stiles’ shirt. Literally.

“You should be more careful with your clothes, Stiles,” Derek says roughly before pressing into Stiles’ stomach and ripping the thread off with a quick flick of his wrist. Stiles inhales a shaky breath as his fingers twitch by his side. “Pull too hard, and they may come off.”

_Jesus fuck._

Stiles nods dumbly for what feels like the thousandth time. “Noted.”

Derek backs up, that stupid fucking smirk still on his face, and beckons Stiles into his apartment with a motion of his finger. Stiles follows, still in a trance, and for the first time, looks around an apartment that has him in awe. It isn’t the fact that he can tell this apartment is six times, no, seven, the size of his own. No, it’s the fact that the kitchen is huge, he can see a home-study from where he’s currently stationary on the welcome rug, and there’s a full set of bookshelves surrounding a fireplace. This place puts any home catalog to shame. _Fuck Pottery Barn._

“You know, you can come in and look around. Don’t have to just stay in one spot,” Derek quips from somewhere to the right. He’s currently preparing something in the kitchen from the sounds that Stiles can discern. Granted, he had smelt something incredible from the moment the door had opened. However, he had been a little distracted by the extremely sexy man that was _ripping_ off parts of his clothes. Sure, it was a thread, but still…

Say something, Stiles. Seriously, say _anything._

“Sorry, man, this apartment is literally bigger than… well, anything. How the fuck does someone earn enough to pay the rent on this kind of place?” A look around makes Stiles notice that there are a few plants, and even less pictures. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. It doesn’t seem like Derek really personalizes his place, but then again, the hundreds of books speak volumes.

Derek stirs whatever he’s cooking in the pan and wipes his hands on a towel. “Well,” a pause, “when you have as many clients as I’ve had, you tend to be able to afford it.” He shrugs with an off-putting look on his face before checking the oven. There’s a certain disdain around the word _client_.

Stiles goes a bit numb at the remark; does Derek not like what he does for a living? Hell, Stiles is about to _be_ one of those clients. Sure, what he’s asking for is kind of mundane compared to other stuff in the world, but he still thinks it’s gratifying. He hopes it isn’t a chore for Derek to do this.

“Ah, well, hopefully taking me on as another _client_ will be beneficial instead of a burden,” Stiles bites out not-so-subtlety before unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and walking toward the kitchen island.

A spoon clatters quite loudly and before he knows it, Stiles has a face full of Derek for the second time in a matter of minutes. This time though, his breath is faster and harsher, and a _lot_ closer. Stiles cannot afford to get hard right now. Does he have a breathing kink? Oh _god_.

“I fucking _love_ what I do. You are _not_ a burden; do you understand me?” Derek’s eyes are wide, calculating. The air is buzzing, and everything is silent. If a pin dropped at that moment, Stiles would guarantee that he would be able to hear it. “I said, do you understand me?” Oh god, Derek’s fucking voice. It's seriously going to wreck him. Derek could say _anything_ to him right now, and he'd say _yes, please, whatever you want_.

“Yes, I, I’m sorry. I understand,” Stiles can’t drag his eyes away from Derek’s. Even when the older man nods and backs away, trying to regain his composure, Stiles is still drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame. A cat to a mouse. It’s insane; he is fucking insane. He gulps, pauses for another moment, and says, “I didn’t know people took _this_ so seriously.”

Derek is now whipping what looks like a sauce even faster than before. “Yeah, well, people come to me when they can’t go anywhere else. It’s all trust and confidence,” he stills and glances up at Stiles again, “you trust me with something you don’t want shared, and I’m confident I can give you exactly what you need.”

It’s Stiles’ turn for his eyes to glaze over. His mouth goes dry, hands clammy. Why does everything that come out of Derek’s mouth have to be so goddamn sexual? Seriously, this guy is going to kill him with just his words. Sorry, not kill, he means come. He’s going to fucking come in his pants like a damned teenager because this older guy is the definition of sex.

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” Stiles looks over at the dining table that is set perfectly and makes his way over. He sits in one of the chairs that has a place sitting, and hopes Derek doesn’t get mad over which spot he chose. Despite what his friends say, everyone has a preference for where they sit. Stiles is no different. He always chooses the chair furthest from the door and facing the interior of the apartment. Call him paranoid, but he likes being able to run from anything that comes at him.

Derek sighs, followed by a smile, and turns off the burners on his stove. Maybe he hears Stiles’ stomach grumble, or maybe he just has impeccable timing, because the food happens to finish right then. In one hand, Derek carries a large, round dish, and in the other, a short, ceramic pan. He places them on the heat protectors that are in the center of the table and takes the seat next to Stiles. It’s closer to the door.

Stiles goes to say something but is speechless. In front of him is chicken fettuccini and a parsley and garlic-toasted bread. This guy is crazy; he’s handsome _and_ makes his favorite dish? Good lord, he’s going to marry this guy. No, he’s going to marry this pasta. He’s going to treat this pasta well. He’s going to show this pasta a _good time_.

Derek chuckles, “Oh, please, don’t let me stop you from having a good time.” Fuck.

“Ha, well, I’m not an exhibitionist, so apologies in advance,” Stiles shrugs and scoops some pasta onto his plate. He pairs it with a healthy five pieces of bread. Derek gives him a raised eyebrow. “This looks fucking incredible, and you are feeding a glutton. So stop with the broodiness Mr. Serious Eyebrows.”

There goes that chuckle again, except it’s a little muffled by the napkin in front of Derek’s face. “Good to know for next time.”

Stiles finishes the bite he was taking, takes a slow sip of water, and stares at the butter dish. “Well, we should talk about it.”

Derek nods and puts his intertwined hands on the table, daring a glance over at Stiles. “I suppose we should. What did you have in mind? I have a few ideas, but it’d be better if you told me what you wanted to start with.” His face looks especially stoic.

Stiles can’t do anything but stare back and stutter out his words, “Well, I’m stuck on the overall, ‘What do I want?’ vibe. It’s all become a confusing, jumbled mess that I can’t figure out. There’s so many things I want to try. So many things I want to approach, or test out, but I don’t know where to begin.” He gets back a firm nod in response.

“Well, how about after dinner, we just examine what you started with? The first thing you thought of,” he gestures over to the bag that’s lying on the couch’s side table. Yes, that’s perfect. Stiles has everything written down; he always does. From the moment he knew he needed help, he began making a list. Simple to extreme. What he figured would and wouldn’t work. It was ingenious; he was prepared for this meeting. He was _not_ going to mess this up.

“Perfect, that’s perfect. We’re gonna look at everything on that list if it’s the last thing I do,” he smiles toothily before shoveling more pasta in his mouth.

Derek follows suit, “Ambitious.”

“I know what I want, and I go for it,” a wink.

Derek’s jaw tenses, and he breathes harshly through his nose. “I can see that.”

“Good,” another forkful, “so, how many clients have you had?”

Derek, through his resolve, shows a little crack in the façade. “Well, a lot of short-term, one-time deals are usually more common. Those people come to me when they have one thing they need to work through. Others, well, others need long-term contracts that fully examine what they do or don’t need to work on.” He twirls another piece of pasta and places it in his mouth.

“Would I need to be long-term?” His voice goes small. No, stay strong. Asking for help doesn’t make him weak. No, he’s better than this. It’s okay to ask for help.

Derek’s face starts to look sympathetic, a look that Stiles wants to praise and write sonnets about. The way his eyebrows are scrunched down, his nose twitching. He’s so adorable, and so sad, and so perfect.

“Stiles,” he places his free hand on Stiles’ right one, “we’ll see once we start, okay? But don’t think you’re hopeless just because it may take you a bit longer than others.” Stiles’ hand trembles under Derek’s still one. He honestly has no idea why he’s so nervous. In all honestly, this is stupid. It is undoubtedly the dumbest thing he can ask for.

“Thanks, Derek,” he withdraws his hand. He misses the warmth immediately. “I don’t know why I’m so frustrated about it. It’s not that big of an ask,” he shakes his head and eats a piece of bread in one bite. His wide jaw definitely has its perks. Eating bread is only one of them. Derek’s gaze lingers.

Derek grabs the back of his own neck and rubs it hurriedly, “It can be.”

Stiles finishes the last of his pasta and gestures to Derek’s own plate, “You done?”

“You mean, am I done so you can have the rest?” Stiles’ response is a quick nod and grabby hands. Derek responds by looking him dead in the eye and eating the rest of his pasta and bread in two bites.

“You _fucker_.” Stiles throws dagger eyes over at Derek. “You’ll face the wrath of Stiles Stilinski sooner or later, _dick_.”

Derek shrugs and picks up both plates, excusing himself from the table and going over to place them in the sink. He drizzles some soap before running the faucet for what feels like a few seconds. It lets Stiles look around the apartment for a second time. This time it’s little more than briefly. Honestly, Stiles wouldn’t be shocked to find out that this is a space Derek only rents to meet with his clients. It’s sparsely decorated and barely lived in. Had it not been for the visible wear-and-tear on the pans, Stiles would’ve claimed vacation home.

“Come sit on the couch with me.”

Stiles’ eyes refocus on the source of the voice. He realizes Derek is already on the couch, waiting for the younger man to join him. How long had Stiles been spaced out? He shakes the thought away and makes his way over to Derek. He sits beside him, legs folded criss-cross. The proximity of the man next to him is enough to have him on edge again. Thank god for the dark pants or else they'd be having an extremely _different_ conversation. The kind where his clothes end up on the floor, and he ends up bent over the couch. Fuck, he’s going to start straining against his fly.

“Let’s grab your folder and start working on that list?” Derek’s tone placates his nerves as he settles back against the couch, leg folded across his knee. Derek’s posture screams confidence. He knows exactly what he is doing.

Stiles tugs the bag onto his lap, reaches into it, and pulls out the crisp paper from within. The words run all the way down the page. Placing the bag onto the floor and the paper in both hands, he takes a deep breath.

“All right, let’s start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, what do you think is going on?
> 
> chapter came at you 2 days early.
> 
> only 8 more to go...
> 
> comment, kudos, and bookmark~
> 
> love y'all!


	3. Never Trust a Tweed Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a bad past and miscommunicated present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this chapter sooner because I'm way ahead on my writing schedule.
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> Warning: The beginning of this chapter has a really creepy, bad touch scenario. If you don't want to read it, skip to the first dashed line/after the italics end. Full content warning in the end note.

_“Professor, please. If you could just listen to my presentation. I know it would be worth it. I’ve outlined all my main points, key evidence, and even my rebuttal for topics that oppose mine. It’s well-thought out, and I’m extremely proud of what I’ve done.” Stiles walked quickly to keep up with the extremely older man. For someone in his sixties, the man was spritely. In fact, Stiles was a little out of breath. Y’know, when he woke up this morning, he had no fucking idea that he would be doing cardio. In the Criminology Department. With his Senior-year Professor._

_Despite the fact that he was under severe stress, Stiles couldn’t help himself as his eyes wandered on the portraits lining the walls. Seriously, there were dozens of pictures. Each one of a different Department Head, tracing back to the original inductee back when the university had started. One look at the paintings, and Stiles knew, those men were old as fuck._

_“Mr. Stilinski, I don’t know what you want me to do. I already have enough graduate students as is,” Professor Grenbeck unlocked the door to his office and pushed his way through, setting his briefcase on his mahogany desk and leaning up against it, arms crossed in front of him. “I simply do not have the time to take on another student.” His mouth was tight, quirked up at the corner and watching Stiles with an indescribable look in his eye._

_“Sir,” Stiles relented as he stood by one of the chairs, hand gripping tight around the strap of his bag, “please. My dissertation is due in two months, and I still need an advisor. You’re my last shot. Just take a chance; I promise this thesis is worth it.” Stiles’ leg, unable to stay still, was vibrating, causing his foot to thump up and down. It was the only sound in the room besides the grandfather clock sitting in the far corner of the room._

_Stiles had been in the room before, back in Freshmen year when he had taken his Introduction to Criminology class. Granted, it was only once, and sure, it was because his research grade had come back an A- instead of an A. Multiple arguments and two hours later, he walked out of the room with an A+. He fucking deserved it. Just as much as he deserved to get his thesis approved now._

_“Here,” Stiles undid the flap of his satchel and pulled out a manila folder. On the outside of it were the details that every thesis needed, the title bolded. He held it out with a shaky hand; he willed it to just calm down. “Can you just look it over?”_

_The Professor looked at him steadily before taking the folder in his hand and holding it tightly against his side. He nodded firmly before walking past Stiles, placing his palm on the door handle, and shutting the door. Stiles went still._

_“Do you know how many students have come to me asking to be their thesis professor, Mr. Stilinski?” The Professor was behind him now, his breath on his neck. “I’m not one to take bribes, but sometimes I need to be persuaded.” A chill went up Stiles’ spine._

_There was no way this was actually happening. There was no fucking way that Professor Grenbeck, a man older than Stiles’ father, was actually suggesting… that. Stiles must still be exhausted from the—cardio—he did earlier. Yeah, that was it. He was just lightheaded._

_“Excuse me, Professor. I don’t understand what you mean,” Stiles’ fingers gripped his bag even harder._

_The man made his way until he was in front of Stiles, shoulders squared and a terribly gross smirk on his face. His tweed jacket, though stereotypical, now rubbed Stiles the wrong way. He was no longer impressed with the grandeur of one of the most tenured professors in the department. The jacket, the whole ensemble, even his office, was gaudy. It stunk of moth balls and desperation. Stiles wanted to know how many students had to go through this disgusting realization, too._

_“You know exactly what I mean,” the gruffness of his voice was the last thing Stiles heard._

_He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him._

__________________

Stiles is still staring at the paper in his hands. Time is pretty much stagnant at this point. He can hear Derek next to him, breathing steadily. The heat of his body is like a comfort, something Stiles hasn’t experienced in a long time. It’s nice. More than nice, actually. It feels right. Stiles doesn’t have enough time to dwell on the fact before he hears a throat clear.

“Hm?” His own voice sounds far away.

Derek hums quietly before he places his right hand on his crossed knee and his left in between them. “I said,” his voice is a little rougher now, “do you want me to ask you questions, first? Ease you into this?” Usually Stiles hates being placated, but this time is different. He needs reassurance—the last time he even contemplated… no. No, he isn’t going to think of that.

“Yeah,” he chokes out before swallowing, “that’d be great.”

Derek nods once before handing over a water bottle he had brought over from the kitchen. Stiles hadn’t even noticed. Derek is kind, thoughtful. Everything Stiles didn’t know he needed. Sure, he loved kindness, but he didn’t know he craved it. He was discovering a whole lot of things about himself today.

“So, Stiles, I guess my first question is if you’ve ever done this before? It’s okay if you haven’t. I just need to know so I can prep better.” Voice steady, demeanor unchanged. This guy is a fucking statue. A statue with a beautiful face and even prettier muscles. Jesus Christ, Stiles, _not_ the time.

The question flusters him a bit, but he composes himself enough to at least answer. “Y-Yeah. Well, I-I’ve tried, but it d-didn’t work out.” At least, he _thinks_ he was composed.

Derek nods to himself a few times, “I see. What happened?”

Stiles honestly doesn’t want to have this conversation. “He, just,” a sigh, “he crossed a line I never thought was even something to cross in the first place.” God, he _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Well, I can reassure you that I am nothing if not professional.”

He’s going to fall in love with this man.

“That’s honestly a relief,” a shaky breath. “I really didn’t want to think about that when I already have so many other things I’m going to need to focus on. You know? I shouldn’t have to worry about that stuff. It should be, y’know,” he gestures to the man across from him. Derek’s return hand gesture means he agrees.

“We’re on the same page then. Next question: how long ago was your last partner?”

Stiles stills.

“Come again?” No way he heard that right.

Derek looks at Stiles directly now. Confusion etched into his previously-calm demeanor. “How long ago was your last partner? I need to know if you’ve been tested since then.” He says it like it makes perfect sense. But seriously, what the fuck?

“I don’t see how that’s important to the matter at hand?” Stiles’ voice now a few octaves higher.

“If we’re going to be having sex, I need to know who your last partner was. Even if we don’t, better to be safe. Simple.” Derek huffs out with his eyebrows arched.

No, this is not simple. On what planet did a tutor ask when someone’s last sexual partner was? In what context was that _appropriate?_ Derek claimed that he was nothing but professional, but how in the hell was sex talk professional? Sure, he wants to climb Derek like a fucking tree, but that is _not_ significant right now. Yes, he wants to slather this man up in honey and chocolate sauce and lick him clean like a lollipop, but still, not important.

“And _why_ are we having sex, pray tell?” Stiles had been trying to hold back his trademarked sarcasm, but at this point, he doesn’t really fucking care.

Derek looks like the epitome of confusion at this point and opens his mouth to speak before closing it. This repeats a few times before he finally gets a few words in, “Stiles, why do you think you’re here?”

Oh, so this pretentious asshole think he’s owed sex now? That this is a transaction? Stiles’ ass was nothing more than a form of a currency? No, no sir. This is not happening.

Despite his anger, though, Stiles can’t help but picture Derek holding him down and whispering sweet, dirty things in his ear until he comes from just the rasp of his voice. He really needs to get ahold of his imagination. It’s going to be the end of him.

Why is this happening again? Above all, why in the span of a few weeks? Is the world not satisfied by already giving Stiles terrible sex from mediocre one-night-stands? No, some being just had to have, not one, but _two_ , older men think they’re entitled to Stiles’ body just because they’re in a position of power. It makes him on edge and shakes him to his core. He already reported the professor, now he has to punch Mr. Perfect in the face. What a great semester.

“I’m here for a tutoring session for my thesis, asshole. I didn’t realize that I was paying you in _sex._ Which, by the way, for help with a criminology dissertation, is a little too literal, don’t you think?” Stiles is pissed now. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew he wasn’t in a cartoon, he’d have sworn that smoke was fuming from his ears.

It’s Derek’s turn to stutter and babble his way through an answer. In fact, he actually rearranges himself so there is more distance between himself and Stiles. It helps settle the line of tension that is currently embedded in Stiles’ shoulders. It is a small gesture of relief, appeasement.

“I, hold on.” Derek sticks out both his hands before reaching into his pocket to get his phone. His finger scrolls for a bit before stopping, followed by Derek’s features scrunching up in bewilderment. “You said in your email that you needed someone to _guide you_. To _teach you_ what you were having trouble coming to terms with. Tell me what I’m missing.”

Stiles looks at this man, with the dumb face and amazing features, and swears someone is getting him back for something he did in his past. He knew that karma would bite him in the ass one day.

“Yes!” He throws up his hands. “I’ve been stuck on my dissertation for _months._ I figured I’d look online for a thesis _tutor_ , and I found you! You wrote about discipline and setting goals, using motivation to get your clients where they needed to be. I’m not... here, look,” Stiles thrusts the paper into Derek’s free hand, and after a few moments, Derek’s features soften. His mouth opens slightly, and he lets out a soft sound.

“Fuck,” he places the paper down and taps on his phone, “I see what happened.” He holds the phone tightly, and after what looks like an internal debate, hands it over to Stiles. Despite his initial hesitation, Stiles snatches it out of those calloused, beautiful fingers. Derek immediately palms his face and lets out an aggravated sigh. Which is followed by a few gulps of his own water bottle.

Stiles tears his eyes away from the gorgeous man in front of him before refocusing on the phone currently in his hand. The words are blurred at first before he blinks away the fuzziness and looks at the top of the screen. He doesn’t understand what he is seeing. “Okay, smartass, it’s just your name, bolded and in the _tackiest_ font, if I might add.” 

Derek grunts and grits out, “Look under that.”

“All right, geez, calm down. I’m not the one _soliciting sex_.” Another disgruntled sound.

Stiles looks under Derek’s name and instantly goes silent. He reads the words a few more times before he is able to piece them into a coherent sentence.

**Derek Hale**  
**_Professional Sex Therapist  
_ _Specializes in BDSM, Power Exchange, and Therapeutic Sex Techniques_**

Stiles’ mouth goes dry, and he swears he’s dreaming. There is no way that the guy who is the definition of sex is actually in the profession of… sex. It’s too obvious! Stiles has so many questions, so many comments. When did he start? Why did he get into sex therapy? Was he a top or bottom? Did he want to fuck Stiles? No, once again, not the time.

“Wha—? Huh? I mean… what?” Pretty much a dying fish at this point, Stiles.

Derek sighes before rubbing his temple, “I’m a Professional Dom, Stiles.”

Stiles is still speechless. Or, he can’t form words, at least.

“Stiles?” Nope, Stiles is offline now. “Stiles?” Seriously, Derek, nothing is going to happen. Stiles is officially in heaven, or hell, or purgatory—somehow a combination of both. “Stiles, listen to me.” Oh, there are strong hands on his shoulders now. They are gripping him tight. The ten points of contact send ten shocks through his body.

“Yes?” Stiles whispers meekly.

Derek rubs Stiles’ shoulders slightly before stilling them again, “I dominate people for a living. People willingly pay me to get them through issues, or in some cases, to figure out who they are through sex. That’s what I thought you emailed me about. I didn’t know…” Derek trails off, and Stiles is going to die for the hundredth time tonight because the _sympathy_ that lines the man’s face is enough to rattle Stiles even more so than he already was. This man feels bad about what happened, and he’s trying to explain it so Stiles won’t freak out even more. He’s being sincere. Stiles’ entire body goes warm.

“I would never exchange sex for a favor, unless it was negotiated, but. That’s not the point. I thought that’s what you were here for, okay? Can you take a few breaths for me? You’re panicking.” Is he? Stiles hadn’t even been aware that he was having a panic attack. Come to think of it, his breathing hadn’t been even since he first read Derek’s webpage. His chest feels heavy, his fingers are clammy, and his heart is beating a million miles per minute.

“Stiles, I need you to breathe with me,” Derek says softly before placing his right hand over Stiles’ heart and his left on the side of his neck. Stiles immediately begins to calm down, and his eyes meet Derek’s. Their breathing begins to match up, and Stiles instinctively takes a few through his nose. He is instantly bombarded with the scent of pinewood, lemon zest, and fresh linen. It is an amazing combination of fragrances that make Stiles’ stomach twist beautifully. “That’s better. Good boy, you’re doing so well.”

The rest of the tension in Stiles’ body drains out of him with Derek’s praise. A low level of arousal replaces the nervous panic he had felt only moments ago, and his eyes blink owlishly at Derek’s own. “T-Thank you.” He unconsciously licks his bottom lip before sucking it between his teeth. His entire body is thrumming, tight like a string.

Derek shakes his head, removing his hands from the warmth of Stiles’ chest and neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say… you were freaking out, and I’ve dealt with that before. My sister.” Derek mumbles softly before placing his hands back into his lap. Stiles misses them already.

“It’s okay,” his voice still small, “it helped. Believe me.” Eyes still wide and lips still wet, “Believe me.” The words are electric, and Derek’s neck flushes pink. “So, where do we go from here?”

Derek twiddles his thumbs and sighes, frustrated. “You’re going to find someone who can help with your dissertation, and I’m going to make sure that external sources with my information are _specific_ about what I actually do. This can’t happen again. Especially with someone who isn’t looking for this.”

“Ah,” Stiles trails off, his eyes now focused Derek’s neck. He wants to kiss that throat. Bite it, lick it. Stiles, _stop._ “Well, then, I should go.”

Derek nods, his eyes still on his own hands, “You should go. That’d be best.” He’s hesitant. Stiles thinks he hears something _unsure_ in his words.

Nobody moves.

Stiles should really go. He should absolutely go. He should leave. He shouldn’t grab Derek’s hand and squeeze it. He shouldn’t beg Derek to look at him. He shouldn’t make a move when he absolutely wants to. He really hopes he isn’t reading this entire situation wrong. He really hopes that the sexual tension he _thinks_ is there is _actually_ there.

He leans in.

“Stiles,” the voice is laced with regret as a palm stops him. “You need to go. _Please._ ” Derek’s gaze hardens. “Now, Stiles. This isn’t what you want. I can’t.”

Stiles’ breath hitches, “Fine.” He stands up, puts his paper in his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and makes his way to the door. Derek doesn’t stop him as he opens and slams it shut behind him. He really wished Derek had stopped him. He _really_ wished he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: One of Stiles' old professors insinuates that he'll accept sex in exchange for reading Stiles' dissertation. No bad touch occurs, but the teacher is definitely inappropriate. Stiles gets the fuck out of there.
> 
> ~
> 
> love y'all! kudos, comment, and bookmark :)


	4. A Watched Phone Never Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles does some pining and browsing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tiny bit of smut to hold you off until the next chapter...  
> in which there will be ~more~

Lips kiss down Stiles’ neck as he arches up away from the satin sheets he’s currently spread out on. They feel incredible against his skin; every movement that racks his body delves him further into the fabric of the bed. The man’s breath is warm, gentle. Each mark makes him pant. Harder, breathier. He’s whining, begging for it, and they haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

He can’t seem to move his hands; they’re stuck on the iron bars of his bedframe. When he tries to move them, something metal rattles, and he’s instantly made aware of the fact that he’s _cuffed_. It’s both the weirdest and sexiest moment he’s ever been a part of. The presence of the metal settles something within his stomach. They make him feel at ease, relaxed. He sinks into the feeling.

The lips attacking his neck stop, and Stiles is instantly brought back to reality. He craves those lips. He needs them biting, licking, _marking_ him. They start to do something better.

“Breathe for me, baby. Feel my hands on your hips, my hard cock against your thigh.” Stiles whines high in his throat. The voice sounds farther away now. Stiles strains to hear it. “Don’t you dare move those hands, darling boy. I know you love listening to me. My words.” Punctuated with a kiss to his inner thigh. “My commands.” A bite near the waistband of his boxers. “My tongue.”

Stiles pants, his cock straining against the only piece of fabric still on his body. He wishes with every fiber in his being that the man would just close his mouth around his cock. He knows he has no power here, though. Everything this man says to him… he knows he’s at his beck and call. Whatever he says, Stiles listens to. _It hurts him not to._

“Sweet boy, look at me,” the voice commands. Stiles finally opens his eyes.

 _It’s Derek_.

Stiles immediately sits up, back in his own bed, panting even more harshly than he was in his dream. His forehead is still sweaty, more than he’s used to. His cock is still leaking dribbles of come. He fucking came in his sweats like a damn teenager. The only reason he’s awake is because of someone currently banging on his apartment door. Threatening to kick their way in. Stiles doesn’t have time for this.

He currently has to clean himself up, wrangle himself into a new pair of briefs, and throw on some clean jeans. Does he even have clean jeans?

He, thankfully, finds a pair that he can squeeze himself into. Accompanied by a dark gray shirt, he’s ready to ignore the billboard-sized dream of his. The knocking is insistent.

He unlocks it and is greeted by… Lydia. 

“Move, Stiles,” she says as she pushes her way past him.

“Good Morning to you, too,” Stiles mumbles, “bitch.”

“I heard that.”

“You heard nothing.”

“Where’s the coffee?”

“Keurig.” He crosses his arms. “ _Good morning, Lydia._ ”

An exasperated sigh. What has her panties in a twist? “Good morning, Stiles.”

A few seconds later, she has a steaming cup of vanilla coffee in her hand. One look at her face, and Stiles notices that she’s not happy. Not one bit.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Uhm, in my apartment?”

She slams the coffee mug down, and it’s a miracle it doesn’t break. “That’s exactly what I mean, dickhead. I haven’t seen you in _weeks._ You’ve cancelled our Tuesday lunch date _three times._ ”

Stiles shrugs and looks at the wall, away from Lydia’s gaze. “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what, Stiles? Your dissertation?” Lydia walks over to the desk in the far corner of the living room and picks up the portfolio that Stiles’ hasn’t touched since the last time he saw Derek. “Because according to this,” she picks it up, “you haven’t done shit.”

Stiles huffs and crosses his arms. “It’s a work in progress.”

“And when’s the last time you made progress?”

“Fuck you, I don’t need this right now.” He stomps over to her and rips it out of her hands. He really doesn’t need Lydia threatening him at—he spares a glance at the clock—oh. Twelve thirty.

“Stiles,” she cocks her hip out and crosses her arms, “what’s going on? You’ve been MIA, and everyone’s starting to worry. Fuck, _Scott_ called me. Do you know how much you have to scare him for him to call _me?_ We thought you died.” Stiles notices the gray under her eyes.

He picks at the side of his portfolio and sighs. He hadn’t meant to go AWOL, seriously. Ever since leaving Derek’s apartment three weeks ago, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him. He’ll be researching topics, and Derek instantly pops into his mind. He can’t go a single night without having a vivid dream about Derek and his…talents. He shouldn’t be this hung up on a guy that he only talked to for a week. Hell, the only serious discussion they ever had was when Stiles thought he was trying to solicit him for sex. Turned out, Derek thought the same thing. It was a fucking disaster. _And yet._

It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. Stiles had his “Lydia phase” back in high school when she was the _literal_ hottest girl he had ever seen. And he watched _a lot_ of porn in high school. But after one terrible date and a handshake, they knew they would be better friends. He hadn’t thought of her like that for seven years.

So why couldn’t he stop thinking of the guy with light green eyes and the most expressive eyebrows he had ever seen?

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Fine.” He tilts his head toward the couch. After they’re sitting, he opens his mouth. Everything just spills out.

Once he’s done, Lydia just stares at him blankly. She’s silent.

“Well?” His voice on the edge of pushy.

“Sounds like you need to fuck him.”

He sputters and has to cough into his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“Look,” she places a hand on his knee. “He obviously thinks highly of you because he had one meeting with you before deciding that he was fully on board to take you as a _client._ Maybe that interest will get you a date. You obviously want to. Why not?”

“Because—,” Stiles can’t seem to find the rest of his words. He can’t argue with her logic. He hasn’t been able to stop himself from thinking of Derek in weeks. Hell, he hasn’t come this much in _months_ , and they haven’t even touched! Stiles’ mind drifts over to what he could be doing this time next week, after a date and maybe one too many drinks.

Lydia takes this exact moment to snap several times in front of his face.

He palms his neck before finally coming up with an argument that is, well, not great.

“Because last time he thought I _was_ going to be a client. That’s why he met up with me. Not because he liked me. Plus,” he thinks back to the moment when Derek let him leave his apartment without a word, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Well,” she purses her lips and takes a sip of her coffee, “you won’t know if you don’t try, right?”

Well, shit.

__________________

Stiles still has Derek’s number. He probably should’ve erased it all those weeks ago when he left the older man’s apartment. But some perverted part of his brain told him _don’t do it, he’ll text you, pine over him, pine pine pine._ Basically, Stiles is an idiot. A dumb fucking idiot.

Which also explains why he’s drafting a text to Derek right now. He’s re-written it a few times. He hasn’t been able to decide on something that is both concise and not too emotional. He looks down at his phone again, the white screen a background against the black text he’s trying to scramble through.

 **Stiles:** Hello, Derek. I hope this reaches you well. I would like to schedule a meeting with you where in we discus—

Yeah, fuck that. Too formal.

 **Stiles:** ‘Sup dude, coffee?

Hm. Too informal.

 **Stiles:** I really want you to stick your cock in my ass.

True, but too vulgar. Right? Stiles is going to file that away for later.

Stiles pauses, thumbs over the keyboard, and stares hard at the contact picture next to Derek’s name. After repeated berating from Stiles’ part, Derek reluctantly sent him a picture that was both stoic and stupidly attractive. It was a dad picture, like the ones that dads take when they’re trying to put up a profile picture up on their social media? Except this time, it was actually fucking hot. How did Derek manage to be cliché and get Stiles hard at the same time? It was a mystery to him.

He clicks his tongue a few times before nodding to himself and typing out what he thinks will get Derek to respond.

 **Stiles:** Last time didn’t go like either of us planned. Dinner so we can talk about it?

Stiles, although he hesitates, sends the text after only a moment. He’s nervous, but at least he has a pretty good chance of getting a response. It’s either a _yes, no,_ or _no response at all._ He’s willing to risk it.

It’s not long into his daze that his phone buzzes in his hand. He promptly flails and throws it across his couch. Classy.

He fumbles and no—he doesn’t _crawl_ —but he does somehow get over there extremely quickly. He won’t ever admit how. After he unlocks his phone and sends up a prayer that probably falls on deaf ears because he doesn’t know if any God would condone a prayer for gay sex, he stares at the gray text that just came through.

 **Derek:** La Quottidan, Saturday, 6pm. And yes, they have pasta.

His chest flutters.

__________________

Stiles spends his next few days trying to ignore the overwhelming nervousness of his impending dinner with Derek. He can’t go five minutes without his thoughts trailing back to that amazing ass of his. It’s so glorious it puts Stiles’ to shame. Stiles has an amazing ass, too. So for him to accept the fact that it comes second to Derek’s is a huge detriment to his confidence. But he’s willing to admit it. Because _Derek’s ass_.

Stiles taps his pen against his notepad before sticking the end of it into his mouth. He’s currently trying to reformulate the order of his thesis, but he can’t seem to find a logical way to order his thoughts. There’s definitely a roadblock in his mind that’s preventing him from coming up with a good argument. Hell, a good _paper_.

He knows he thinks about it a lot, and he knows he talks about it even more, but this is fucking important to him. He needs to write about something that his employers will be interested to read and something that’ll allow him to graduate with honors. So, basically something having to do with the judicial and education systems. But that also provokes argument and controversy. Not a tall order at all. Seriously. He’s doing fine.

His thesis and meeting with Derek is enough to elicit a small, albeit significant, breakdown on his part. This mostly comes in the form of a shit ton of take-out and a few bottles of vodka. Lydia had to come in and check on him to make sure he was fine, and after seeing him strewn on the couch with his hand deep into a bag of Cheetos and empty bottle on his chest, joined in. It was a pivotal bonding moment in their friendship.

Stiles is just about at his wit’s end when his gaze trails over to the last item on his list. It hasn’t been crossed off yet, which means it’s viable, but that also means it’s his _worst_ option. Not worst as in the most terrible, just worst as in the fact that every other choice didn’t fucking work out.

His eyes linger around the words, and he goes to ignore them before something clicks in his head. It’s a fucking epiphany. He immediately takes the pen out of his mouth before writing down as many ideas he can before his hand starts hurting.

He’s on item twenty when he stops, breath quick and palm throbbing. He’s proud, and he can’t stop the smile that finds its way to his face. Why stop here? Why not end this night on an even _better_ note?

Which means going to Derek’s Sex Website and looking around for information on the man he can’t get out of his head. It’s harmless. He’s only going to look.

He types the first letter of the website before it auto-fills. No judgement, okay? This is only the third time he’s had enough guts to look at it. He presses enter and is sent to the front page, which displays the same greeting he first saw when Derek showed him. What he’s now familiar with is all the drop-down menus and the different links that send the reader to other websites or reviews. He clicks on the one labeled _Kinks._ He’s man enough to admit he’s never clicked on it before.

What opens is enough to make him minimize the tab and look around as if someone’s going to catch him. He lives alone. This is fucking stupid. But he does get up and shut his blinds. He’s not that much of an exhibitionist, like he told Derek all those days ago. 

He _is_ a voyeur though.

Anyways.

The page takes a moment to load before a whole list of kinks, notes, and subsequent ranking systems pop up. It’s a little overwhelming. They’re even placed in an organized table that has labels and everything. Stiles looks at the beginning of the list and has to avert his eyes for a second before he looks at it again. He notices that Derek’s preferences are all clustered at the top.

Stiles’ mouth is watering, and he is at an absolute loss of words. Usually, reading about sex this _formally_ would usually temper down his arousal. But not this time. He feels himself hardening in his sweats as his pulse thrums. His fingers shake as they scroll down the page and hover over the other kinks on his list. The ones toward the bottom tend to be hard limits, so he doesn’t even bother looking at them. Whatever Derek deems as _absolutely the fuck not_ , he trusts him. The next thing he notices is that when he hovers over the names of the top kinks on the list, they highlight. Which means something’s going to happen if he clicks on them. So he does.

And nearly falls out of his goddamn seat.

Because what he didn’t realize before is that there is a _Gallery_ link on the main page, and it takes him to another page with _pictures_. _Pictures of Derek domming._

Stiles’ cock chubs up until it’s straining against his pants. He looks down and notices that there’s a wet spot where the tip of it is leaking precum. He groans, licks his lips, and slots his gaze on the screen. Where the first picture will haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future.

It’s Derek, standing in front of a girl, back to the camera. She’s tied up with ropes that line her breasts and stomach. Her gaze is toward the floor because his hand is in her hair. He can’t even see Derek’s face or hear his voice, but Stiles knows that his authority comes from the way he’s posed. He’s seen it in person. The guy exudes sex and confidence to the point that he got _Stiles_ to shut up. That’s a feat in and of itself.

And even though Stiles can’t see his face, and there’s no indication that this isn’t a stock photo, Stiles knows it’s Derek. Because of his ass. He’d know that ass anywhere. It’s covered in dark blue jeans, but that doesn’t matter. It makes Stiles whimper, and the only ass that can do that is Derek’s.

His cursor hovers over the right arrow on the page, and he hesitates before pressing down. What he’s met with is something that steals his breath away even more than the last one. Because it’s Derek. With a man, well a _young man_ , bent over his lap. And his ass has a bunch of red marks. Which means he was spanked. Multiple times. His cock is throbbing to the point where it _hurts_ now.

So he snakes his hand past his waistband and gets a hand around himself. It’s hard and leaking. One twist to the head of his cock, and the result is instant.

_He’s coming._

It takes him by surprise. It’s so fucking intense. His back arches off his chair, eyes closed and cheeks flushed. He clenches his teeth. The feeling courses through his body, and the only thing stopping him from screaming is sheer will. His entire cock is hot as his come coats the inside of his sweats. His spine vibrates, still electric and tingly after his _extremely_ quick release. He can’t help but shake as his mind wanders, dazed and hazy.

The ghost of a name is painted on Stiles’ lips as he comes down.

_Derek._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it!
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark :)


	5. The Bread is Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek takes Stiles to dinner, and finally, sexy times happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in my midterm season right now, so I figured I'd give you this extra-long and *finally* smutty chapter, while I study for my tests.

Stiles is outside of the restaurant, hands drumming a random rhythm on his thighs as he contemplates his life. He’s about to meet, for the third time, the hottest fucking guy he’s ever seen in his life. No joke. He’d be thinking about asking Derek a particular question for weeks, and well, if the sheer amount of times he’s come with Derek’s name on his lips is any indication, then he was making the right choice. So why was he so nervous? Well, Stiles was about to ask Derek if he could take him apart at the seams and _dominate him._

Here’s the thing.

First he has to _go into_ the restaurant, and _then_ he can ask Mr. Derek to do all those sweet and naughty things to him. But he can’t move. Seriously. His feet are planted on the sidewalk, eyes glued to the sign above him, which is in fucking _cursive_ by the way. Hell, there’s a damn valet. His run-down jeep finally got to be treated like the king he is. It’s wonderful. But that doesn’t matter when all the other cars parked in the valet lot look like they’d bully his poor jeep if they were schoolchildren on a playground. Poor Roscoe.

Someone clears their throat, and Stiles’ is saddened to find that it’s not Derek, but the door attendant. He wonders if he’s used to that sound already. If the attendant’s face is any indication, he has been holding the door open for at least a minute or two. He looks pretty irritated. Once again, a usual reaction when in the presence of Stiles. Which explains why Stiles feels bad enough to trudge over to the guy and into the restaurant. The guy huffs, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Stiles can feel the guy’s eyes follow his ass as he passes him, he’d feel worse.

The inside of the main dining room is enough to make Stiles’ wallet hurt. It’s tucked away in his pants pocket, the side one, because Derek didn’t say it was mandatory, but he alluded to the fact that the _restaurant is a higher end one, so jeans probably won’t work._ Stiles had enough dignity to put on a dress shirt and black slacks, so there.

The host is dressed in all black, tie in a Windsor knot, and hands folded behind his back. If Stiles wasn’t a confident twenty-four-year-old man, he would have said he was intimidated. But he isn’t. Because he’s a grown man. He convinces himself that the sweat on the back of his neck is because his jeep’s AC is broken.

The man produces a smile that can be described as only _slightly_ manic. “Hello, sir. Table for 1?”

His grin is shit-eating.

“Actually,” Stiles pauses and tells himself to speak up. “Reservation. For two?”

The host smirks to himself and goes to type something on the computer in front of him, “Name?”

“Hale, I think. It should be under Hale.” 

The guy stills. Double-takes at Stiles’ nervous face. “Hale?”

“Yeah, for 6pm. I’m pretty sure.” He checks his watch again. He’s only a minute or two late.

Stiles notices now that the host is visibly shaken. He thinks it’s odd. Before he can think further into it, the host nods, steps out from behind his podium, and gestures for Stiles to follow him.

The walk is accompanied by soft, gentle music that has his nerves calming down. The light in this place is perfect. Just on this side of dark, he realizes it’ll help hide any fidgeting on his part. It’s also really fucking romantic. Like _really_ romantic. He’s pretty sure he just saw a guy propose to his girlfriend at one of the tables by the massive window that overlooks the courtyard. So yeah, _really fucking romantic._

He thought this was supposed to be an apology date. Date? Is it even a date? An apology something. Not… whatever this is. Not that he’s complaining. The ambience of this restaurant may work better for what he has planned, anyway.

It’s only when he bumps into the host’s back that he realizes he’s at his table. He starts to apologize before the man at his table stands and places his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. The hand is warm, and Stiles has to stop himself from melting.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Stiles, confused, turns to the source of the voice and finds the host. “For earlier. My apologies.” He nods his head earnestly before disappearing.

“Did you find the place all right?” That voice.

Stiles meets the man’s eyes and sure enough, it’s Derek. Gorgeous, beautiful, attractive Derek. His tongue is heavy in his mouth because _Derek. Derek_ in black slacks that frame his thighs well. _Derek_ in a burgundy dress shirt that clings to his chest and abdomen like it was painted on. _Derek_ in a black blazer that is unbuttoned and tapered to his waist. _Derek_ and his stupidly amazing face. Just fucking _Derek_.

“Yeah, I,” he blinks a few times, “I did. Sorry I’m late.” His cheeks flush as Derek pulls his chair out and smiles.

“No worries. I realize it was a bit out of the way,” he sweeps his arm across the seat, and Stiles gets the hint to sit down. Derek tucks in the chair, squeezes Stiles’ shoulders, and makes his way back to his seat.

Stiles takes this brief moment to really look at Derek. The man is perfectly groomed, hair quaffed back, and he smells absolutely wonderful. That lemon and pine scent is enveloping his nose again, and he is _not_ complaining. Not one bit. Honestly, though, Derek is so fun to look at. Stiles could look at Derek for the rest of his life. Wait, what.

“Why did the host apologize to you?”

Stiles hesitates, but then Derek gives him this _look_ , and Stiles doesn’t admit he gets a little hard, but he totally does.

“He assumed I was by myself, and then was shocked to find out I was with you. Dickhead.” The last part is mumbled. Stiles decides to place his napkin in his lap, which is _cloth_ by the way, and begins examining the menu. Fuck, the prices are high. Derek wasn’t kidding. He’s about halfway through the appetizers when he notices that it’s been a few beats since Derek spoke. He dares a look up, and he’s speechless at what he finds.

Derek. Fists in a death grip with his own menu, and his eyes staring directly at Stiles. Stiles was wrong before; _now_ he’s hard. Derek’s eyes are incredible. Breathtakingly beautiful. And they look _pissed_.

It takes Stiles reassuring Derek that he’s fine before he finally settles down. Stiles starts to wonder. He knew Derek was intense from the moment he met him, but Derek is _really fucking intense._ Like, an insane amount. It first happened in the coffee shop when they arranged their first meeting, once again when Stiles doubted Derek’s love for his job, and well, now. He starts thinking about how that translates to his focus during sex. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t drool. But only like 95% sure.

“Well, then, do you want anything to drink? Wine? Champagne?” Stiles eyes widen.

“Dude, I was going to get like, a beer? Do they even have beer?” His face scrunches up as he searches the drink menu.

Derek chuckles, which is once again, the most beautiful sound he’s ever made.

“Yes, they have beer. Can’t believe you’re ordering it at a place like this.” Stiles thinks Derek’s mad at him but then he notices the smirk on his face.

“You fucking _heathen._ I’m going to order the cheapest beer here just to spite you.” Stiles doesn’t stick out his tongue. He doesn’t.

And Derek absolutely doesn’t stick out his in retaliation either.

After looking at the price for the cheapest beer, which is _still_ super expensive, he groans. “This place is more expensive than my rent.”

Derek surprises him again.

“You’re not paying for it.”

Wait, hold on, what?

“Excuse me, what?”

Derek shrugs and sips his water. “You’re not paying.”

“Okay, you dick, we’re splitting it.” Derek raises his eyebrows. They’re very expressive.

“Stiles,” his voice is rough, and Stiles swoons. “I’m paying. End of discussion.”

Stiles doesn’t fight back anymore. In fact, he leans into it.

“Fine. Then I’m ordering the most expensive things on the menu. The ones I can’t even _pronounce_.” The last word has a little edge on it, but it doesn’t really do much because Derek has the same smirk on his face as before.

“Go right ahead, Stiles. I’m not going to stop you,” there’s the growl again. Stiles is extremely glad the tablecloth and his own napkin cover his lap because if they didn’t…well. Stiles is curious to find out if that’s Derek’s sex voice or if it gets _deeper._

“On that note, then, I have a question.” Derek grabs his water class with one hand while still perusing the menu in his other. He nods and looks Stiles over before settling back on the engraved paper before him.

“Is this a date?”

No joke, Derek fucking _chokes_ on his water. Has a full on coughing fit. It’s enough to make Stiles laugh so hard he starts crying. Swear to god tears from his eyes. His stomach starts hurting before Derek reaches across the table and smacks Stiles upside the head.

“You fucker.”

“That’s for making me spit up water.”

“It’s your own fault. You didn’t _have to choke._ ” 

“Well, when you ask a question like _that_.”

“It was a simple question that didn’t require that big of a reaction, Mr. Serious.” Stiles would be extremely hurt if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still sort-of losing his shit. Derek still had water stains on his shirt.

Derek nods to himself, clears his throat, and looks at the man across from him. Stiles sees something vulnerable in his expression, and he quickly sobers up. Derek folds his hands on the table, and he notices that his knuckles are white. He’s really struggling.

“Sorry.”

“No, It’s okay. Uhm,” one more sip of water. The waiter comes by at this very moment to take their drink and appetizer orders. Derek orders wine, Stiles orders his promised beer, and they both order two appetizers each. Stiles can’t pronounce any of them.

Derek places the menu down and looks up at the younger man, albeit a bit shaken. “That’s a difficult question to answer.” Stiles goes to rebut this before Derek holds up a hand to stop him. “In my line of work, sessions can be called dates, Stiles.” Stiles blushes pink from his neck to his ears, and Derek traces the color with his eyes.

“So, Stiles, do you want this to be _that kind_ of date?”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry, and he instantly rethinks his entire plan. Yes, he came in wanting to be dominated by Derek, but is he actually going to go through with this? Does he actually want to give his entire sex life into the _very capable_ hands of this stranger?

“Yes.”

Derek nods and leans back in his chair. “All right then.”

“Do I have to pay?” Stiles doesn’t know why he blurts it out, but it’s out in the world now, so, oh well.

Derek keeps one of his forearms on the table and another on his lap, “Consider it on the house for… last time.” Stiles can tell he tries to keep the smile off his face but even Mr. Serious can’t help but laugh.

Stiles is grateful, beyond grateful. Because he’s fucking broke. And apparently, Derek is _loaded_. Exemplified by the dishes that are brought out by their server and put in the middle of the table a few minutes later. Stiles absolutely drools this time. It isn’t long before he’s stuffing his face in a manner unbecoming of the aesthetic this restaurant is trying to achieve. There’s nothing better than amazing food and even better company. Stiles goes to ask if Derek agrees but the soft smile on his face is a big enough indicator.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely,” muttered with a stuffed mouth. Derek merely huffs before stabbing at the plates with his fork and coming back with a big enough mouthful that it puts Stiles to shame. It warms his heart. Especially when Derek can’t fit it all and has to subsequently divide it in half. His eyebrows pitch down in frustration, and Stiles thinks it’s adorably endearing.

“You are, too, I see.”

“Shut up,” a grumble before he eats the remainder of his first bite. The satisfaction on his face is enough to shut Stiles right up. Derek is cute when he’s happy.

“Not possible. You’ve talked to me before. I stop for _no one_.” Stiles’ proud smirk is dimmed when Derek’s eyes light up with a knowing glint.

“We’ll see about that, now, won’t we?” Another bite.

Stiles gulps, and the tips of his ears go red. Never would he admit how turned on this guy gets him. But he’s really fucking hard, and his cock is starting to chaff.

Stiles manages to squeak out, “Yeah.”

“And you’re absolutely sure?” Derek’s eyebrows do this funky thing as he rubs his mouth with his napkin. It quirks up in the corner in a show of confidence, but the way he’s slightly hunched says otherwise.

Hesitation isn’t even a part of Stiles’ repertoire anymore. “Yes.” Okay, maybe a little bit.

“Well, then, we’ll finish our meal and then head back to my apartment to discuss some things.” It’s Stiles’ eyebrows’ turn to do the _thing_. He spoke too soon. Nervousness racks his mind again. Are they really going to be starting so soon? Was he about to get fucked within an inch of his life? He hadn’t even prepped. He was not ready to have a cock in his ass. Okay, willing, but not _ready._

“To answer your entire situation,” Derek gestures to Stiles’ face, and the boy responds by flipping him off. “No, we’re not having sex tonight.” Eyes rake down Stiles’ body and land on where his crotch is covered by the tablecloth before edging back up to his eyes. “Not that I don’t want to.”

“The feeling is mutual,” and where the fuck did _that_ confidence come from? If there was a situation to finally grow some balls, Stiles guesses this might be it. At dinner with a handsome stranger that wants to tie him up and fuck into him until they’re both panting, writhing messes.

Stiles not-so-subtlety adjusts himself. Derek definitely notices. He fucking smirks.

“I can see that.” Smugness laces his voice.

“Fuck you.”

“Soon.”

Stiles’ turn to choke on his food. Derek laughs. It’s all very nice.

Silence follows, and despite the usual feeling of frustration and need to fill it, it is quite nice. Neither man feels the awkwardness that usually happens, and they both finish their appetizers in time for their server to clear away the dishes and write down their entrée orders.

“It’s really not a problem that I can’t pay you right?” Stiles decides to break the silence with a question that has been bugging him since he first asked.

Derek sighs and folds the napkin back into his lap. “It’s definitely not a problem.” Stiles’ pained look is enough for Derek to elaborate. “Put it this way, even if I had never had any clients, I would be doing way above fine. I just love doing what I do. Plus,” he hesitates and meets Stiles’ eyes for only a second, “I mean it when I say I want to do this for you. Free of charge.”

The tension that follows is palpable, charged even. Stiles would give anything to be splayed across this table with Derek’s tongue in his ass right now. Send the dishes to the ground, use the whipped cream from their future desserts to tease and write on his body. 

Stiles clears his throat, “It means a lot. Thank you.”

Derek nods softly, his composure dwindling. “Why do you want this anyway?” An uptick at the tail end of his sentence alerts Stiles of how close Derek is to breaking. Granted, Stiles is already fucking broken. He’s ready to be dragged off and taken advantage of.

“You’re hot.”

 _“Stiles.”_ Derek groans and looks like he’s going to launch himself into the wall.

The truth is, that question is fucking hard to answer. Why does he want this? Assuming he has a healthy sex life, why would he want to add something that he isn’t even sure would do anything for him? But. The thing is. It does. It always has. He’s never been able to admit it to anyone but himself, but he yearns to submit. Finding Derek was like dumb luck. The universe was pointing a giant fucking arrow at this gorgeous man in the coffee shop, and he was smart enough to embrace it. So even though he wants to tell Derek _I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, I’ve come with your name on my lips too many times to count, If you don’t fuck me I think I might die,_ what comes out is:

“I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve never been safe enough or able enough to admit it. But I need it,” his voice grows to a whisper to where Derek has to lean in to hear him, “I need submission."

If that doesn’t cause Derek to go silent, Stiles wouldn’t know what it would take. But it does. Derek is absolutely silent. He is looking at Stiles like something breakable, fragile. Stiles doesn’t particularly care for it.

“Please say something.”

Derek reaches across the table and takes Stiles’ hand in his before meeting his eyes. His thumb rubs circles into Stiles’ skin, pushing down enough to let Stiles know he’s there, but not enough that it hurts. Stiles hates that it’s so perfect.

“I would be honored to have you submit to me.”

Stiles preens and tightens his fingers around the ones in his palm. They’re rough, beautiful. He can’t wait to feel them in him.

Their entrees come, which causes them to part. The echo of bitter departure is overcome once they both see their plates. 

The sounds Stiles makes are absolutely _not_ his sex noises.

They totally are.

__________________

Dinner ended up taking another two hours. Both men were too caught up in their conversation to notice that the wait staff were placing bets on when they’d be done. Surprisingly, it’s the bus boy that not only said they were on a date, but guessed they would be done later than the married couple only a few tables away. He was right, down to the minute.

They talked about Stiles’ family, where he’s from, what he’s doing at school. He answers everything with animated hand gestures and even more preposterous facial expressions. The amusement that Derek shows when Stiles gets into another one of his stories is enough to settle any self-consciousness that Stiles had at the beginning of the night. It’s absolutely refreshing to talk to someone who genuinely wants to hear everything about him.

Derek was no different. Every question Stiles asked was met with a short, albeit enthusiastic answer. It took a few tries before Derek was speaking in articulate sentences, and even paragraphs, but once he started, he didn’t stop. Stiles wouldn’t say that he was slowly starting to really like the guy, but he definitely was.

Which is why they are currently back at Derek’s apartment, nursing cups of hot coffee—Stiles with his latte—and nestled on the couch with only a foot of space in between them. Derek’s worn blanket is laid across them, tucked around their bodies for warmth and safety. It is especially cozy. The warm hearth of the fireplace crackles in the near distance. The entire situation is enough to elicit a consistently-comfortable feeling in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. Especially when Derek brushes a stray tendril of hair away from his eyes. The shiver that cascades his spine is not new. He could get use to the familiarity. He kind-of already is.

After an hour talking about miscellaneous things, the topic of conversation strays to Derek’s line of work, and there is suddenly an underlying feeling of tension. Stiles does not want to pry, but honestly, he has so many questions. The craving to learn everything he can about this man is too overwhelming to ignore at this point. Of course, Stiles is entirely excited to get to the sex-portion of this arrangement, but it would be a lie if he said he didn’t want to listen to Derek’s stories even more.

“How long have you done,” Stiles gestures to the general vicinity between them, “this?”

Derek folds his leg across his opposite knee and holds his mug steady. “Since I was eighteen.” Stiles is pretty sure is eyebrows go to his hairline. He has to stop himself from spitting up his coffee on the man next to him. Derek’s response is immediate as he sputters out an explanation. “Wait, no, hold on. Oh my god.” He reaches to grab a corner of the blanket and dabs off the spills of coffee from the corner of Stiles’ lips and chin. Stiles’ heart thumps in his chest. There is no denying how much it turns Stiles on. Looks like he likes getting take care of.

Derek ignores this fact in favor of trying to save face. “The first time I ever… participated… in the community was when I was eighteen. With someone much older. It wasn’t until my early-twenties that I realized I wanted to do this full time. With clients. People who could trust me to take care of them. So I got my dual-degree in Psychology and Gender and Sexuality. I opened my site at twenty-four. So I’ve been doing it for six years. Officially, that is,” he finishes with a flourish of his hands.

Stiles blinks twice, nods. Looking at Derek for the first time gave him the impression that he was strong, able, rough. Twelve years. Twelve years that Derek has been into this lifestyle, kinks, this community. That is twelve more than Stiles. Not by choice, though. Granted, Stiles could have taken the leap and gone to their local BDSM club. Lord know there is enough in Los Angeles to go to a different one every week. Hell, they even have special booths at Pride for this exact reason. No, what this means is that Derek is beyond experienced.

“You have a lot of experience, then?” Stiles can’t help the insecurity that creeps into his voice.

“You could say that.”

“But it’s okay that I don’t?”

“That’s usually how this goes.” Derek isn’t even being condescending.

“Isn’t it better when the people you’re with have experience?”

Derek appears to consider that for a second. The way is eyebrows scrunch together and his mouth straightens into a line gives Stiles hope that he’ll say _no, no it doesn’t mean that_. Wishful thinking, though.

“Not necessarily.”

Oh.

“Oh?”

Derek finishes his coffee and sets it down on the coffee table in front of them. Somehow this action makes them that much closer. There is nothing obstructing their focus from each other. Especially when Stiles finished his latte minutes ago and did the same thing.

“Sure, having clients with experience makes it easier to negotiate and work together in the long-run.” Derek smirks a little before clearing his throat, “But if you ask me? Taking time to figure out what the other person wants is definitely more appealing to me. They tend to want to experiment more.”

Fucking hell. Yeah, Stiles is definitely hard now. And apparently he lets out a sound just as eager because Derek is looking at him like he’s a fucking _meal_. Which is saying something, because their dinner had been _so_ filling. They did skip out on dessert though, because for some reason, the way Stiles was eating the whipped cream was enough to convince Derek to get the check early. His cheesecake is currently sitting in the fridge, completely untouched. It is a damn shame.

Stiles swallows and notices that his throat is particularly dry. He really needs to keep his head because if not, he is going to end up bent over this couch. On second thought, not a necessarily bad idea.

“Experiment, huh? Sounds like, uhm, high school chemistry all over again. Heh.” Stiles’ attempt to laugh out the tension dies when Derek graciously moves his palm over to Stiles’ thigh. The contact is still separated by the blanket and Stiles’ slacks, but he guesses that won’t be the case for much longer.

“Must mean you’re my lab partner then, hm?” Derek’s chide is playful.

“Something like that,” Stiles manages to form a sentence despite the fact that his tongue feels so fucking heavy. If he does not relieve himself soon, he is going to have to explain the stain in his dress pants to the dry cleaner. Despite the slight satisfaction that would come with his confession, he knows there would be a hell of a lot more embarrassment. He was not fourteen anymore. He could control himself. Only if Derek would stop rubbing his thigh with the palm of his hand.

Derek is rubbing his thigh with the palm of his hand.

Stiles is desperately trying to find a way to continue the conversation without blurting out that he wants Derek to _fuck him and fuck him now._ His mind is having trouble focusing on anything that is not Derek’s beautiful, thick fingers _that would feel so good crooked just right._

“Do you, uh, dom anyone or is it like, a selection process Hunger Games-style?”

“You’re asking me if I make people battle to the death just to get an appointment with me?”

Stiles smacks his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“I vet everyone, but usually I’ll take on anyone. Women, men, gender non-conforming. Some don’t even need sex. Age doesn’t really matter to me either,” he finishes. Stiles thinks he is going to say something else but he refrains.

“Ah. I see.”

“I do prefer fucking men though.”

Stiles fucking swears that his cock jumps at Derek’s words. Honest-to-god presses against his zipper and begs to be let out and touched. He figures Derek notices because his eyes go hooded and pointedly look down at where his crotch is covered by the blanket. Stiles has never really been good at hiding this kind of thing.

“You do?”

Derek gets closer, his hand slyly creeping to rest at the seam where the blanket ends and Stiles’ waistband is visible. If he had more dignity, Stiles would hide the soft whine that is held at the back of his throat. He doesn’t.

Derek’s slow nod and whisper perfectly answer Stiles. “There’s something about the way a man looks spread out on my bed. Wanton, needy, begging to come and all rung out. It’s amazing,” the last words come as a whisper, a breath against Stiles’ lips, because somehow Derek is now only a small distance away. If he wanted to, Stiles could crash their lips together. Taste the sweetness that is Derek’s essence. He knows it would be absolutely divine.

“I thought we weren’t having sex tonight.” He does not mean for it to come out so shaky, but he can’t really help himself. The hottest man he has ever laid eyes on is a lips-length away and wants to see him sweaty and covered in come. Sue him.

“Consider it on the house.”

Their lips crash together, and it’s hot and messy and absolutely fucking _perfect_. Teeth clatter, and Derek’s hands make their way into Stiles hair and pull _just right_. Stiles whines high in his throat and eagerly wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. It is quick and rough and everything Stiles had hoped it would be. Derek tastes fucking _incredible_ , and there is nothing that Stiles wants more than to continue kissing him.

Butterflies. Butterflies are all he feels; all he wants to feel. Every minute that Derek’s lips are on his is a minute he never wants to forget. The action is chaotic, beautiful. They are battling to get closer to each other, and yet, there is barely any space to do so. Derek is grabbing at Stiles’ sides to slide him onto his lap, and the movement has Stiles swooning. He pants against Derek’s lips, pressing flush against the older man’s chest. His heartbeat is quick, but he is pleasantly surprised to find that Derek’s matches.

Stiles pulls away to gather air into his lungs, and it’s safe to say that he is absolutely _wrecked_. His eyes are screwed shut, body wound tight, back arched. He is panting, unable to decide whether to attack Derek’s lips again or move his hips back and forth. His cock is still trapped within his slacks. He is so achingly hard. The pressure of his cock pressed to Derek’s is absolutely delightful. But he wants. He wants so much _more._

It is only when Derek’s hips buck up into his that he finally opens his eyes. The sight causes his cock to twitch. Because Derek looks just as blissed out; the button on his dress shirt somehow came undone so Stiles can see the flush that tinges all the way from his chest to the tips of his ears. He looks so fucking _delicious_. Derek’s breathing is just as ragged, gulping in air to try to regain some sense. He looks so much more destroyed than Stiles thought he would. _He loves it._

“Der…” Stiles slurs out because he can’t really focus on anything else besides Derek’s face and his lips, and then they are kissing again. Harsher, wetter, sloppier. It is so fucking _good_ , and it feels so fucking _right_. Stiles is pulling at Derek’s hair, and Derek’s hands are gripping Stiles’ hips, digging in, _bruising_. Each sting of pain is delicious, and it urges him to bruise Derek’s lips to match his own hips.

It is Derek’s turn to pull away now, but he doesn’t go too far and instead chooses to press their foreheads together. His eyes open, a beautiful green, and Stiles is breathless again. Derek’s eyes are so dazed; he looks so _hungry_.

“Stiles, let me take you to bed.” It’s a miracle that Derek can speak because Stiles apparently only has a few words in his vocabulary right now. Seeing as how he forces the words out with a grunt and another thrust of his hips, though, Stiles can tell they are in the same boat.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles is nodding profusely, and he wraps his arms around Derek’s neck even tighter. Not long after, Derek stands up, Stiles wrapped around him like there’s no other place he would rather be. _There isn’t._

Derek is mouthing at Stiles’ neck now, and he has to urge himself not to come because he is so fucking close, and the feeling of Derek’s tongue causes him to grind his hips down harder. He’s pretty much an auto-pilot as Derek carries him to his bed, which is super fucking big. And has satin sheets. Looks like his dream was right.

What is even more surprising is how gently Derek lays him out, careful to make sure his head is on a pillow, arms draped on either side of his head. His shirt rises up, and Derek’s eyes immediately zone in on the pale space of skin that’s dotted in moles. He looks even hungrier now, and Stiles throbs. He’s so fucking hard.

Derek dips down and straight-up licks the space below Stiles’ belly button. Stiles whimpers, his fingers digging into the sheets. If his pants don’t get taken off, he’s definitely going to come in his pants. Which is not fucking fair. After weeks of wet dreams and embarrassingly-quick orgasms, he deserves to have a semi-prolonged one. Especially because he’s _in bed with the man that he’s been thinking about_. It’s only right.

“Stiles, can I? I need to,” Derek stammers before unzipping and unbuttoning Stiles’ pants. Stiles meets his eyes, and since he’s still at a loss for words, he just nods. Derek hooks his hands into his waistband and tugs them past his thighs and down to his knees. Stiles goes to complain that his briefs are still on but then Derek licks at his cock through the fabric, and he fucking _whines_.

Derek’s tongue feels fucking incredible. It’s pressing firm kisses to his cock before sucking a few wet spots to accompany the precum stain Stiles’ already made. Speaking of which, that spot is Derek’s main focus of attention, and apparently he loves it. The sounds Derek makes as he grips Stiles’ hips and licks at the spot are a _sin_. He almost has Stiles beat on the sheer amount of sex noises he’s making. Almost.

It’s too good. Stiles can’t help himself as his legs twitch and back threatens to arch off the bed. Derek keeps him pinned though. And the pressure on his hips is _so fucking good_. It grounds him. Fills him with such pleasurable comfort that he unconsciously presses himself deeper in the sheets and stills. Derek notices this and looks at Stiles with nothing but _yearning_ in his eyes. He nips at Stiles’ thigh before hooking his hands into his waistband and tugging down. Stiles’ cock bobs up and hits his stomach, hard, red, and leaking from the head.

Derek groans and twists his fingers over the base before moving up and swirling around the tip. He pulls his finger away and sucks precum off of it, moaning.

“Fuck, you taste incredible,” before Stiles can answer that remark, Derek lowers his mouth over the tip and _sucks_.

Stiles groans and fists the sheets. Derek’s mouth is so good. It’s a _wet, tight heat_. Fucking velvet. He wants to cry it’s so good. All he can do it slur out meaningless words of encouragement. _Yes, fuck, Der, so good._ He’s a fucking mess.

Derek sucks more of Stiles into his mouth, and meets whatever he can’t reach with his palm. Which is so rough and the way it grips him is _just right_. Stiles will write sonnets about this. Fuck, he’ll write his dissertation about Derek’s mouth and what he’s doing to him right now. Ode to Derek’s mouth. That’s it. Stiles isn’t going to last very long, and he knows it. 

“Come for me, sweet boy,” and then Derek does this tongue flick right on the slit of his cock, and Stiles is coming. The feeling starts at the top of his head and migrates all the way to the base of his spine. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, but all he sees is white. Derek’s mouth is a fucking sin, and it made him come in _seconds_. 

He regains enough of himself to look down where Derek’s eyes are, and he sucks in a breath of air. Because Derek is suckling the head now, drinking whatever come Stiles’ cock has left. The last spurts of come drip over Derek’s lips as he licks them clean, nuzzling Stiles’ cock and humming softly. It makes his heart pang.

“So good for me,” Derek coons as he rubs his palms over Stiles thighs and makes his way up to place a kiss on Stiles’ lips. “So good.”

Stiles hums, dazed, a goofy smile on his face as he nuzzles into the pillow underneath him. He doesn’t want to lift his arms but he makes a noncommittal sound as the warmth of Derek’s form leaves him. His entire being is still a little lost and unfocused, so all he can hear is some ruffling in the bathroom before Derek comes back and wipes him off with a warm rag. It’s delightful. Stiles moans; Derek’s adorable huff follows after.

The rag is tossed, and Stiles has to mutter out a nonsensical phrase before Derek gets the clue and joins him in bed. Arms wrap around him and stroke along his back, easing whatever tension he had accrued while arched on the sheets moments before.

Stiles has enough sense to bump his head against Derek’s head and say _thank you_ before he passes out.

He drifts to sleep before he can feel Derek’s lips press against his forehead and mutter out _you’re welcome_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all your comments and kudos. Seriously, means the world to me. :) 
> 
> I also have certain *kinks* and *sex scenes* planned out, but I would love to hear what you guys want to read!


	6. All it Takes is "Yes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles finally talk about their list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the 2 week delay!
> 
> here's 4000+ words to compensate for that.
> 
> Chapter Warnings at bottom!
> 
> remember to request stories you want to read [here](https://forms.gle/PZv8BVJnMgPRJPqUA)
> 
> (p.s. they're free! and you can request anything!)

Stiles usually can’t say that he enjoys mornings. All of his classes in his undergrad had been at noon or later; his graduate school schedule was even later. He chose not to wake up before at least lunch time, and he was always okay with that. Any earlier than eleven? The person better have brought him coffee. Earlier than nine? Four cups of coffee. Seven? Be completely prepared to have Stiles throw something. His father had collected multiple bruises over the years.

So, why, at nine o’clock in the morning, is Stiles so pleasantly content to be awake? Because Derek had made him a fresh brew of espresso. And then steamed milk and added one sugar. He made him a goddamn latte. And brought it to him, in bed, with a warm chocolate croissant. No joke, Stiles fucking moaned. Not one of those fake moans, either. Honest to God, an unfiltered sex moan.

He pretty much devoured the croissant in only one or two minutes. It was heavenly; of course he requested a second one. Derek happily brought him one. It took him awhile to nurse the coffee, though, because it was so damn good. Derek had reassured him he would bring him another one if he asked. (Stiles didn’t ask, but Derek _did_ bring him another one. He was a wonderful man.)

Now Stiles is wide-awake and ready for the day, albeit a little jittery and stuffed with pastry goodness. If Derek lives like this, it’s a mystery that he gets anything done. Having someone wait on him hand and foot has Stiles wanting to hide himself away in Derek’s bed and never leave. Honestly not the worst idea he’s ever had. He wishes for nothing more than to just stay buried under the covers. With the looming thought of what he came for in the back of his mind, though, he knows that they are going to have a _talk_ today. It would be a lie to say Stiles is ready for it. He really isn’t.

“How’re you feeling?” The heavenly voice drifts from the doorway, its owner’s body slack against the frame. The light cascading in from the window highlights every hard curve of Derek’s body, and Stiles finds himself swallowing down the pool of saliva he had accumulated in his mouth. Derek is beyond _gorgeous._

Realizing that a question was asked, Stiles clears his throat and makes a disgruntled noise, burying his head deeper into the pillow. It’s so incredible. This bed is his new home. Sorry, Derek.

The bed dips beside him and a hand is suddenly palming the back of his neck. The weight of Derek’s fingers digs slightly into the spot where the base of his neck meets his spine. Tendrils of arousal begin trailing down his body, pooling in his toes before ricocheting back up and remaining in his cock. Every place Derek touches lights up every single one of Stiles’ senses. He attributes this to how skilled the man is. The other possibility scares him.

“Any hesitation? Comments?” Derek’s voice settles over him like a warm blanket, and suddenly, Stiles wishes he was wearing something under this sheet.

“S’good. You were great,” the mumbling reaches Derek’s ears and the soft laugh that follows is so incredibly adorable.

“You were, too, Stiles,” the praise washes over him and causes a red tint to spread over his neck and into the tips of his ears. The words don’t even compare to what was said to him last night, and yet, they are still enough to get him all hot and bothered. This man was going to be the death of him.

Speaking of little deaths, Stiles vaguely wonders when they were going to talk about the elephant in the room. Yanno, the _kinky-totally-bdsm-relationship they were about to have?_

“When you’re ready, we need to go over the list. The right one, this time,” the fingers still on his nape trail down and settle mid-back. If Derek goes even a little lower, he’ll be touching Stiles’ ass. _His ass._ Oh god, please touch his ass.

Wait.

The list. 

Fuck.

“List?”

Kneading into the flesh like he owns it, Derek trails his fingertips across the sheet. There’s only a thin layer between them, and Stiles wishes with all his might that it was gone.

“Yes, the list. The one that is going to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.” A light slap on his ass.

Stiles chokes on his spit and shoves his face deeper into the pillow underneath him. It’s a safe space, he thinks.

“Is that okay with you?”

Stiles nods, still face-down.

The hand on his back stills but the nails dig in slightly. Stiles groans out a slight hiss of pain. His cock gets harder.

“I need a yes or no, Stiles.”

Turning his head to the side and meeting Derek’s eyes, he notices how dark they are. It suits him.

“Yes, that’s—let’s do that.”

With a curt nod in response, Stiles determines that it’s time for his boxers to go back on, despite the fact that his cock is going to be straining away from his body. During this journey, though, he realizes he overshot how far that piece of clothing had been thrown and tumbles off the bed with a groan. 

Derek isn’t much help. He fucking laughs. _And_ continues walking out of the room.

If he didn’t give him one of the best orgasms of his life last night, he would probably be more upset. But, he saves what dignity he has left and tugs the material over his thighs until it’s snugly wrapped around his waist. Stiles contemplates whether he should wear more before realizing that he only has the button down and jeans from last night. His eyes trail over to one of Derek’s shirts haphazardly draped across a chair. He figures it’s fine to wear and tugs it over his head.

He isn’t prepared for the onslaught of how fucking incredible it smells. _Figures._

Stiles pads out to the living room, still impressed with how clean it is, and slouches over the island. The older man is simultaneously fixing himself a cup of coffee and drawing something out of a desk drawer. It’s a stapled packet of paper. Stiles’ cock twitches in response. Yeah, _definitely_ not morning-wood. Especially when he takes a peak at Derek’s ass.

The man in question turns around and quirks an eyebrow, challenging Stiles to say something. When he doesn’t, because of how straight-up turned on he is, Derek beckons him over to the couch. The same couch from the first night he was here. This time, though, they’re on the same page about what list they’re going to be discussing.

It’s only when they’re sat in the same positions, Derek’s hands on his thighs and Stiles' crossed in his lap, that the man speaks.

“So,” he taps a finger on the front cover of the packet, “we’re going to go through each item. Considering the fact that you’ve never done this, I understand if you’re nervous. But you need to tell me everything, okay? No holds barred. I won’t judge. Promise.”

Stiles nods, mesmerized by how calm Derek is. He still has a slight amusement to his features, despite the fact that this is a serious conversation, and it settles Stiles. Whatever nerves he has fly out the window because Derek is actually being professional. Like he promised that first day.

“Okay,” Derek flips past a page and huffs softly, “ready?”

Stiles tries to make out the words on the page before he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “Yes.”

The truth is, Stiles isn’t ready for what they’re about to talk about. He has so many things he wants to try, so many things he’s not even ready to admit to _himself._ How is he supposed to admit them to Derek? From his late night research sessions, Stiles understands that these relationships require trust and an open line of communication. It still puts an inkling of fear into him that he has to voice kinks and preferences he’s kept hidden for years.

“First we’re going to talk about the basics. Sexual acts and the…” a quick glance at Stiles’ blank face has Derek’s voice growing softer, “what kind of things you want us to do. Nothing too serious, yet, okay?” Placing his left hand on Stiles’ right knee, the pressure sends a comfort into him.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Stiles, can you breathe for me? I promise this is going to be a low-pressure situation. If you need to stop at any time, please let me know,” voice warm and fingers gripping softly into Stiles’ knee has his confidence soaring back upward.

After a few breaths and a determined look in Stiles’ eyes, Derek continues, “Sexual contact. Handjobs, blowjobs, any form of contact to your dick?”

“Isn’t that a given?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Well, in that case, absolutely.” There’s no hesitation, really. Stiles wants Derek’s hands and tongue and lips all over his cock. He’s willing to beg. Cock twitching against his boxers, he realizes that _that’s a new thing._

“Rimming?”

“You to me or me to you?” Stiles loves getting his ass eaten more than a few of his friends, but after seeing Derek’s ass? He desperately wants to lick him until he’s a weeping mess.

With a smirk, Derek thumbs Stiles’ skin, “Me to you.”

“Yes,” blush arising in his cheeks, he continues, “but me to you, too.”

“Noted,” Derek scribbles with his pen before looking back up, “but for the record, I really want you spread open on my tongue.”

Given that Derek’s mouth has already been on his cock, there’s nothing really stopping Stiles from launching himself at the man. However, he wants to wait until he has permission to do so. _That’s_ something that he hopes comes up in the pages that Derek has in his hands.

“Can’t wait.”

The man has the gall to lick his lips and trail his eyes down to where Stiles’ erection is tenting his boxers. The fact that Derek gets off on how sexually pent-up Stiles is gets him harder. Seriously how the fuck is he going to survive five minutes of Derek domming him? He can barely last a minute with Derek just _staring_ at his cock, let alone getting his hands all over it.

“What about anal sex, fingers, toys, cock, or otherwise?”

“Would an enthusiastic ‘fuck yes’ work?”

The man chuckles, checking a box on the paper, eyes lighting up.

Stiles is curious though, and a thought comes to him, “Do you bottom?” If anyone asks, he couldn’t help himself. No matter what your positional preference, Derek’s ass could probably change your mind. It was perky and tight and so goddamn beautiful.

“Why? Do you prefer to top?” _That wasn’t a no._

Stiles’ sexual awakening happened when he was fourteen and watching a few of his favorites bands on Youtube. He realized that staring at male lead singers was just as amazing as the female lead singers he was accustomed to. From there, it was pretty much about getting experience. Said experience involved night club blowjobs and one-night stands. Though he found equal pleasure in both, and still considered himself “bi and rippling with pride,” there was something about a cock that was _so much better._

Upon this realization, he knew he needed to figure out where he fit in with _that_ subset of the community. Stiles typically went for men that eye-fucked him from across the bar, so as to not go for someone that definitely wasn’t interested. These men always preferred to bottom, so Stiles never really questioned it. It wasn’t until a man, whose name escapes him because they didn’t really have time to exchange names when their tongues were down each other’s throats, decided to press him against a wall and finger fuck him open until he was panting for him to just _fuck him and fuck him now_ , that he realized he didn’t just like bottoming, he _loved_ it.

So, no, he did _not_ prefer to top. _But._

“No, I, I’m definitely a bottom.” Seriously, could he stop blushing? Just once, that’s all he asks. “But, if you’d be okay with…?”

Derek squeezes his knee before dipping his voice an octave lower, “I’m a top, Stiles,” he leans forward to nose along Stiles’ jaw line before nipping his teeth over his pulse point. “And a damn good one.”

Stiles inhales a sharp breath, closing his eyes and baring his neck. Derek’s mouth is a literal sin that Stiles can’t help but be self-indulgent in. He wants every part of his body traced by Derek’s tongue. He doesn’t care how long it takes; he wants it.

The man pulls back, causing a whine to be ripped out of Stiles’ throat, and grins to himself.

“God, you tease,” laying back to rest against the arm of the couch, he drapes his own arm across his stomach, playing with the edge of his boxers.

“We need to finish the list, _before_ we get to actually doing stuff, mister,” Derek relents before subtly adjusting himself.

“Looks like someone is just as affected.”

“Yeah, well, when you have someone begging to be fucked next to you, and you can’t wait to fuck them, it does that.” His remark is sarcastic, a playful hint in the quirk of his lips. 

“Excuse you—I am not _begging_ to get—,” Derek’s tilts his eyes over to Stiles which promptly shuts him up. “Fine, next thing.”

“Giving handjobs or blowjobs?”

“Yes.”

“Eager.”

“Well when you have someone whose cock you haven’t seen, and someone who has an oral fixation, it does that.”

Derek pauses, eyeing Stiles’ lips, “Oral fixation?”

Trailing the tip of his tongue over his top lip before sucking the bottom one into his mouth, he tilts his head to the side, “Absolutely.”

Derek takes another moment to admire Stiles’ lips before refocusing on the list in front of him. Stiles notes that his bulge is even more prominent. His mouth salivates. It’s going to be hard to not jump Derek if the conversation continues like this.

“So now that we’ve established that _you’re_ the one who’s going to be fucked, let’s move on. Kinks or toys?”

“Both.”

“No,” another pause accompanied by a chuckle, “which one next?”

“Toys.”

It’s another discussion that Stiles isn’t really prepared for, but he is a bit more familiar with it. He’s been in enough sex stores and has enough of a collection to be a little more comfortable with this part.

“Dildos?”

“Absolutely.”

“Plugs?”

“Yeah,” he voices and takes a peek at the paper, shivering at some of the words he sees.

“Would you be okay with wearing them in public?”

This catches Stiles off guard, but apparently it’s enough for his cock to leak out precum. He’s never thought of himself as one for public sex, but if it’s only between him and Derek, then…

“Yes, I would.”

“Anal training?”

“Huh?”

Derek trails a fingertip down Stiles’ calf muscle before squeezing the top of his foot. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever get over Derek touching him, even when it’s not inherently sexual.

“I’d train you to take bigger and bigger plugs. The biggest one would help keep you open for me any time I decide I want to fuck you,” the words slide off his tongue like they’re talking about the weather. He doesn’t understand how nonchalant Derek can be about the things they’re going to do and still keep a sense of dominance over the conversation that lets Stiles know exactly who’s in charge.

“Sure,” he breathes out softly; his eyes a little dazed.

“Good. Prostate massager?”

“What’s—?”

“It’s like a vibrator that rests on your prostate and milks it. I can control it from the outside.”

Stiles gulps in air like he’s desperate before nodding his head with an accompanied _yeah._

“Are vibrators a yes, too, then?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” his slight praise and admiring gaze makes Stiles preen. He’s glowing with pride and _so fucking happy_ that he’s pleasing Derek.

“Beads?”

“Yes,” he says, albeit dizzily.

Derek smiles once again, making a note of it. “Not many no’s, I see.”

Stiles knows that Derek doesn’t mean it in a negative way, but the words still cause Stiles to shrink in on himself. He’s never been open about what he wants, so he wants, no _needs,_ Derek to appreciate and take him for what he is. He wants to put his pleasure and trust in this man. The need is apparent. The man notices this and palms Stiles’ thigh.

“Darling, it’s fantastic. I can’t wait to play with you. Give you exactly what you need. Take care of you, okay?”

Stiles sways toward the man, and Derek responds by palming the side of his neck, placing his thumb on the vein throbbing in his neck. The show of possession has Stiles melting, body going even more relaxed in Derek’s capable hands. He wants to surrender everything to him.

Mumbling out a _yes,_ Derek withdraws his hand but with Stiles’ respondent whimper, keeps it in contact with the younger man’s thigh.

“Cock rings? Will you let me control your orgasms?”

“Orgasm delay? Yeah, I’d like that.”

Derek makes another note before flipping two pages and scribbling something else down. All of this writing has Stiles focused on Derek’s hands. They’re amazing hands, tanned and strong and he really wants them wrapped around his throat, holding him open, dipping into his mouth to rest on his tongue.

“Not the same thing, darling, but I’ll mark yes for both of them,” he murmurs, pleased, before flipping back to the page labeled _Toys_. “Gags? Blindfolds? Anything that controls your senses.”

The way that Derek’s eyes light up at the word _gags_ has Stiles salivating all over again. He doesn’t know why Derek sets every part of him on edge. He thinks about everything that Derek brings up, and it scares him, not because he doesn’t want it, but because he _does._ He’s learning things about himself that he never knew he wanted. Things that he never wanted to try suddenly are at the forefront of his mind.

“Blindfolds? Maybe. Gags? I mean, I talk a lot…”

“That’s the point.”

Stiles’ cock twitches again, another reminder of his agreement with the current proceedings, “I’d like to try, yeah. But maybe not all the time… I want to be able to talk to you.”

“Something tells me I’m going to want to hear your moans and voice screaming out my name.”

“Someone’s confident about their skills.” It literally takes everything in him to come up with something sarcastic.

Derek’s eyes light up for what seems like the thousandth time today, “Just wait ‘til you have my cock in you.”

Stiles gulps, merely nods, and motions over to the paper.

Derek goes through the rest of the things on the toys list: _fleshlights, cock cages, and ben wa balls._

Stiles answers with a respective _sounds fun, maybe, and absolute yes._

Derek finds all his answers amusing and doesn’t give his own preferences away. He would be able to bluff if it weren’t for the fact that Stiles has his top kinks memorized. He was waiting until Derek brought them up just to see how composed the older man could keep himself.

The minutes that pass as Derek makes his notes and flips to the next page give Stiles enough reprieve so that his nerves aren’t _completely_ on edge.

When his mind isn’t entirely focused on the toys that Derek will be using on him, he’s able to think about more mundane things. Like the paint color on the walls, or the fact that he wonders what they’ll eat for lunch.

“All right, kink time.”

“Kinky and the Brain,” Stiles winks.

Derek palms his face and groans, “Remind me why we’re doing this again.”

“Because you want my pale ass marked up.”

“True.”

Derek is cute. Not just handsome; he’s definitely a cutie pie. As cute as the cutest muffin at a bakery. Stiles wonders if he was dropped on his head as a child.

Probably.

“So, seeing as how we’ve established that we’re going to have sex, some of these kinks will intertwine with that. Some won’t. Okay?”

“Yessir, all A-okay with this Stilinski right here.”

Derek seems to stumble for a second before starting to call off things on the list.

“We’ve established you’ll be my submissive, yes?”

“I mean, unless you want to get dommed.”

“I’ll reserve that for you, Stiles.”

“Well, if you insist.”

Derek palms his face, annoyed. It’s a look Stiles is prepared to see often.

“So power exchange is a yes. Does that include any specific type of exchange?”

Stiles’ eyebrows dip, and he asks, “Could you elaborate?”

Derek reads down the list that accompanies the subset of Power Exchange: _master/slave, brat tamer/brat, hunter/prey._

“What, uh,” his lip quivers as he perks up, playing with his thumbs, “what’s that second one?”

Derek’s smirk grows more prominently on his face, and Stiles swears he sees something _feral._ “Brats are subs that like to talk back to their dominants. Basically, they want to be put into their place. They’re especially _mouthy._ ”

“Yeah, mark that as a yes. Sounds like the definition of me, honestly. Other than that, I just want… you to be you? Me to be me. Like, an inherent power exchange but I want it to be us.”

Derek seems to understand because his eyes go warm as he crosses off the other two options on the list. It’s an honest-to-god relief that Derek gets it. He’s never been one for anything too complicated. Just him, Derek, and some amazing sex. With the occasional, or more than occasional, toy. Sounds perfect to him.

Stiles knows that what he wants is probably somewhere on that list, and he knows that Derek will eventually get to it. But anyone who’s anyone knows that Stiles has, and will always be, an impatient bastard.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to try, and you mark it down?”

Derek seems a bit shocked at first, but regains his composure, leaving the packet open to its current page but makes no other move to look at it. “Yeah, please.”

“This is going to take a lot of courage, and I know we agreed to no judgement, but I’m just going to speak my mind. You’ll tell me if anything is a _no_ for you, right?”

“Yes, of course. You know I would.”

“Okay, great, here we go,” Stiles huffs, and his fingers twitch a bit. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed because Derek’s hand is there, suddenly, grasping his with encouragement and motivation.

“I’ve never been able to make up my mind on anything. College took forever to decide on, hell my major is still up for debate, and I’m legit in graduate school.”

Derek’s eyes soften at the edges.

“I’m bisexual, which literally means I can’t decide. So… that extends to sex. Always has. There’s things I always want but things that I only want when the time is right, you know? Like, I know I always want you to dominate me. Duh. Look at you,” he gestures to Derek’s overall, well, _Derek._ “But there’s things I want to try that I only want at certain times. But sometimes I know what those times are, and sometimes I don’t. Fuck, I’m not making any sense.”

Derek’s hand squeezes his, and Stiles is _not_ going to melt. “Makes total sense, promise.”

Stiles nods and continues, “Sometimes I want to be degraded and talked down to. With words, and choking. Not in front of other people, just you. And not severely, okay? Just… just enough.”

The tension in the room is so fucking electric. His body has had consistent bolts of lightning zinging up his spine this entire time, but now, now it feels so surreal.

“Other times I want you to tell me how,” he chews his lip, “how _good I am_.” The last three words end in a whisper, and Stiles is afraid to look up. It was no surprise that Derek calling him _good boy_ made him just as relaxed and satisfied as his orgasm, but it _was_ a surprise of how much better it made him feel _during_ his orgasm. He loves validation as much as the next person, but getting validated while you’re getting pleasured? It’s something that he wants to experience _many_ more times.

“I also want to be tied up.”

Derek fucking goes beet red, and the hand that grasps Stiles squeezes so hard it _hurts_. Stiles thinks he’s upset him but one look at Derek’s eyes shows just how _hungry_ he is. 

“We can do that. All of that,” his voice a low growl. Caressing his fingers, “All of it, darling. All of it.”

Stiles darts out his tongue before continuing, “Do you ever hit people?”

“Do you want me to hit you?”

A quick shake of the head, and their eyes are back to staring at each other.

“No, no, I don’t want you to like _beat me_ , but spanking? Maybe? Or leaving marks on me. I like… I like that.” Nodding to himself, he rearranges his legs so they’re crossed underneath him. His cock is still obscenely sticking out from his lap.

A quick glance at Derek lets Stiles know that the man is having trouble forming words. He sputters every time he tries to speak, but the way he adjusts himself in his lap is enough for Stiles to keep going.

“The last thing is overstimulation or denial. Both. I want you to fuck with my senses. Have me begging.”

“That all sounds like something we can do, Stiles. Are you okay with the color system?” Derek’s words come up breathily, hushed, like a secret between them.

“Yeah, for safe words, right? Why?”

“Because I’m going to take you back to my room, and we’re going to have our first scene. Okay?”

His heart skips a beat.

“Green.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning: Kinks, including, but not limited to: degradation/humiliation, choking, bondage, various types of sex acts, sex toys, and sensory deprivation are discussed.**
> 
> **Derek and Stiles don't participate in any of these acts, but there is a negotiation revolving around them.**  
>    
> thank you so much to all my readers!
> 
> I love all your kudos, bookmarks, and comments. they always put a smile on my face :)


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